IN: Review: Every country which has a working film industry has some sane (and maybe some insane) artist which make movies that you can only completely understand when you're a part of this country. I guess Hundstage is such a movie.

You see the lowest level of Austria's society, dirty, disturbed, weird, hateful. But they still have enough money so they can afford tuned cars and big houses. And they are definitely doing a lot of strange things here which maybe seems for them 'normal' because they're doing it through their whole life. From a normal human viewpoint you can now easily follow the movie and be disgusted or fascinated and watch a fine piece of Austria's art movies.

But if you LIVE here and you know the people you see the characters in Hundstage as the tumor of the society. A society that is going more insane from day to day, creating their own rules that nobody else can understand, cave the social system from within. And you SEE the people. Sitting in the park, standing at the opposite street corner, queuing in the same line. Maybe you meet 'em in a bar or a disco you may visit. Maybe you even work with them in your job or they are living next to your house. You start to hate them without exactly knowing why. You'll try to get away - but you cannot. Maybe you'll end up like them. But it seems 'normal' for you because you're doing it through your whole life now...

Life isn't so bright though Austria is one of the richest countries in the world. It has beautiful people... but some are also ugly. There are a lot of hard working persons trying their best... but there are also some riding on the back of others and destroying everything that the folk of Austria has built up so far.

A very pessimistic movie.
What is this review like?
OPTIONS:
- negative
- positive
OUT: positive

IN: Review: My take on this, at our local festival where people would see me so often they thought me a better source than I may actually have been, began with a head shake: "Well, I can't summarize the plot, but it's a really superb character study of an extremely scary man." Then, slight embarrassment, I ran into someone who actually knew what had gone down, that is, from whom Trebor unwittingly gets his new heart. It'd been my last film in a long, long day halfway through the festival. Maybe I'd dozed. The better a film is the more likely it triggers daydreams that send me really dreaming. Don't know. Did know there was an O'Henry twist achingly just beyond my ken as things finished. And knew it had to do with the heart, hence the quietly hilarious talent search. My plot-loss remark had more to do with intricacies of Trebor's connections in France, his relation to the dog woman and so on, stuff I'd been wide awake for. Denis barely glances at details that might have anchored another director's treatment.

But I write these things too often from memory, especially festival films, films whose DVD I don't have at hand (Le Lait de la tendresse humaine is one of many examples.), and plot kinks fade much more quickly than broader impressions. Still, or already, L'Inrus in my memory is beyond all else a character study of a sort of dark-side superman, a super fiend not ensconced in genre or historical trappings but active and plausible, relatively soft-spoken, driven but patient, right among us. The scar, once he attains it, makes him, just visually I mean, in image, a sort of hybrid Frankenstein monster, mad doctor and creation all in one. The actual doctors are his tools. If he doesn't extract and install the heart himself, it's only because it's not possible. He's the force, always, the parasite consuming everyone he touches and finally himself. What else is he? To suggest that he's us, the First World versus the Third, seems too simple since he feeds no less on his fellow First Worlders, on all of us.

Denis's camera's eye - when it looks at things I know - goes usually where mine would, so I tend to trust her when she looks at things I don't know. Snow trekking, too-fast bicycling, and forest darkness I've known in small ways, but the South Seas not at all, so I made better entry into L'Intrus, both France and the crystalline isles of its finish, than into Beau Travail. L'Intrus is, for me, a very comfortable discomforting film. It's a sequence of places portrayed familiarly, with a intimacy that allows us to know them whether we've seen the reality or not. A single image, Trebor cycling, his massive weight on the thin racing frame, the sounds of violated air and shrieking tires, the asphalt ribbon, the dark-in-bright-sun evergreens, cued me that the film would be linear, a road trip, a single will-driven thrust.

Despite Trebor's personal power, he's a human failure. No matter who he's with, he's alone, though apparently he hasn't always been. His body aborts life twice, first to need the new heart, then despite it. L'Intrus is tragedy. Trebor is hubris.

I'm navigating perilously the thread of what I remember. Let's leave it at that.
What is this review like?
OPTIONS:
- negative
- positive
OUT: positive

IN: Review: This British pot-boiler has one thing going for it: the young men are uniformly good looking. The older men are opinionated, right-wing Thatcherites whose behavior brings back all the acrimony of the Reagan/Thatcher years. Young or old, however, morals in this three-part mini-series are universally suspect and no one comes off particularly well.

Nick is a handsome young gay man fresh out of Oxford. It is not pivotal to the story, but he has an extraordinarily beautiful head of hair which makes watching this drivel much easier. Nick comes to London with a friend, whose father Gerald is a rich conservative politician, and babysits his sister Cat while the family frolics in the south of France. They neglect to inform him that, when upset, Cat cuts herself with an assortment of knives and other kitchen implements. Nick mistakes their self-serving 'gratitude' for affection and moves in, finding out too late just how much they despise and patronize him. Inexplicably, Nick lives in this house for four years but, as the plot depends on this point, it's best not to question it.

While Nick is most pleasing to look at, he is unbearably obsequious. His coy subjection to rich bigots soon had me climbing the walls. Deeply closeted except to Cat (she guesses his big secret on sight), he does like a little anonymous sex just so we know he is actually gay. Though it hardly seems possible, Nick takes a lover who is even more closeted than he.

Supercilious Tories scorn and insult the two blacks in the film, so imagine the venom which spews forth when Nick's sexual orientation is reported in a tabloid. Gerald, in true Tory fashion, has become involved in several personal and financial scandals, so the revelations about Nick add to his embarrassment. This gives Gerald one final opportunity to roundly castigate the hapless boy.

Except for one brief moment of indignation, Nick takes the abuse heaped upon him in silence and tacit agreement. Denial, self-loathing, naivete, or ignorance? You decide, if you can manage to sit through this whole thing without throwing something at the set.
What is this review like?
OPTIONS:
- negative
- positive
OUT:
negative