Cure ★★★★

Illness and alleviation for the forthcoming abyss of doom. There is an indiscernible itchiness that can never be scratched when its quiet annoyance keeps making your skin scrawl, ears numb with that kind of eerie flatness, hearing your own guts slosh, X-marked flesh flapping or your brain shrivel in fear of the hidden obscure. Kurosawa has set-up a murky large space where people often get lost in, a world which has calmly collapsed, drained of all colorful shades, detached with eyes transfixed to the cold exterior, isolated from melodious harmony and most horrifically implicated in the total absence of a human soul. With a lack of emotive expression, replaced by pure disquietude and inscrutable aggression, this is a subtle work of a madman.

The question “Who are you?” is the key to open that enshrouded void within each person, bringing out the cure for repressions, personal inhibitions from the nakedness, bare bodied desires. The dreadful showcase of omnipotent aloofness adorned with flickering flames and a glass of water is sufficient to hypnotize and drive us insane toward an empty oblivion, a pit of confusions and accursed hallucinations. That hollow feeling is damn right excruciating, unnerved because of Kurosawa’s plain presentation of blood's cheap stench and staleness exuded from the lurking shadows, accompanied by a psychic brutalization, galvanized without any purposes nor reasonable behaviors nor motivations that had given birth to an esoteric malfunction. It is a no nonsense mind game, a psychological uncertainty veiled in static ambience until you kneel down in complete hysterics, suffocated, not knowing why but to question on whether you’re finally cured or is it only the early stage of such decadent manifestation.
No one can understand what motivates a criminal, sometimes not even the criminal

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