A genuinely chilling experience. With his subversive style and jarring pacing, Fuller makes the audience feel the mental descent and entrapment of the protagonist in their bones. But what's most distressing is how little change has been made about the socio-political issues that Fuller is rebelling against here.
A film of two halves. The first hour is forceful in all the wrong ways: over-written, over-directed and over-acted. Haskell Wexler's innovative, sharp lensing is the saving grace. Once the initial mania cools down—more or less following George and Nick's conversation outside the house—and the performances shed a bit of their theatricality, the film finds moments of genuine intimacy, but it can never completely transcend the original text's unwieldy structure and grandiose dialogue. Frankly, I was too worn out by the end to feel genuinely invested, though I do appreciate it as possibly the essential Taylor-Burton pairing.
Quite a daunting prospect, and having now finally seen it, quite daunting to watch too. I don’t think it’s blasphemous to suggest it could be a little bit shorter; it isn’t thematically or dramatically necessary for Sátántangó to be as long as it is. But that’s a minor complaint about the film, which is unlike anything I’ve seen before. It transports the audience to an unfamiliar place that feels at once eerily dark and strangely common. It’s a historical film…
It's quite a remarkable achievement to make such a beautifully photographed film at only 88 minutes feel like a real bore, but Pawlikowski does it.
The storytelling structure —brief snapshots across the years of the progression of two lovers' romance— makes it incredibly difficult for the film to develop either of the two main characters, or for the audience to become invested in them at all. They are rough sketches, drawn in very grand cinematic images, but their feelings and…