Favorite films

  • Wings of Desire
  • Blind Chance
  • Z
  • Nostalgia

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  • Autumn Almanac

    ★★★★½

  • Beanpole

    ★★★★★

  • Only Lovers Left Alive

    ★★★★

  • Night on Earth

    ★★★★

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  • Autumn Almanac

    Autumn Almanac

    ★★★★½

    The deadly intimacy of a razor blade. Words, just as deadly, invading the silence, ripe with the wariness intrinsic to communist rule: to survive is a private affair. Still, the desperation to connect, to trust and confide in others, persists—a straggled wild flower upon rotted earth. 

    Rumpled sheets, woven rugs, eyes behind the haze of cigarette smoke. Melancholic tones of rust, ochre, autumn’s prophecy of decay and subsequent renewal. Caught in the clutches of this decay, a strangled gasp for…

  • Beanpole

    Beanpole

    ★★★★★

    Strained fervour and suffocating guilt nest in the fissures of postwar Leningrad, invading what little space is spared by this ruthless claustrophobia. Dialogue trembles with the fragility of eggshells, and words are hoarded away like precious gems. What remains is a feverish desperation characterised by deep silences—suffering is communicated by strained glances, twitches of the lips, tortured clutches of the hand. Hollow mumbles take place of the hoarse scream which longs to dislodge itself from this ever-invading silence. Yet the…

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  • Wings of Desire

    Wings of Desire

    ★★★★★

    A life caught between the snares of stillness, stagnation. Thoughts froth at the surface, qualms and dreams and petty agitations. The two men watch, eternal spectators to the theatre of mortality. They drift in suspension, hanging upon the cliffs of unreality—between the clutches of lucidity and delusion. 

    The sequence is crafted with a temporal fluidity; thoughts spill into words which contaminate, words which infect. But the infection is one barred from those who drift in eternity. They are saved from…

  • Four Nights of a Dreamer

    Four Nights of a Dreamer

    ★★★★½

    A rumination on solitude, detachment, the corrosive idealism of one submerged within his own illusions. He is the dreamer of Dostoyevsky’s White Nights, a wandering soul, frittering his days and years in the tomb of his mind’s fantasies. Slumbering within the sanctum of his dreams, he renounces reality. But it is a reluctant kind of sacrifice, something which slides into being without any true volition. 

    The days dribble by with a ritualistic recurrence: he walks, he mutters into his recording…