Image barraging, the avalanche of colour, noise and information that dazzles in Daisies and keeps me surfing the channels night after night on the TV at the foot of the bed, is on trial for the sins of the world. To wallow in irony and ornament grotesquely with allusions is admittedly becoming something of a hobby for me, but I at least find it funny. To my stimulated eye, Daisies seems fresh, just pushed up, and it's 76mins running time slips by all to quickly. It may be amidst the blipvert aesthetics of Avid and Flame, the internet, ad breaks and digital video that directors are finally getting to write their dreams, messages and egos onto the screen with almost no mediation or adulteration, and recent films such as Fight Club or Natural Born Killers have been held by some to turn mastery of cinematic form to the communication of complex and committed discourse. Enduring a Fincher film, for example, is like chaperoning the most stroppy of teenagers.
Daisies offers a better class of teen tantrum altogether, certainly more motivated.
Chytilov has given her girls something to cry about and a fine wail to let rip with. Daisies is a Zabriskie Point that gets to the point, perhaps something like a Ginger Snaps without the werewolves. Well, it's back. First released in 1973, this classic of Brit cinema makes a return in brand new prints thanks to the earnest endeavours of the bfi. Needless to say, some bad shit starts happening, and Rick and Evie have to save the day.