I sit here stunned. A heap of twisted brain cells, and frayed nerve endings. I can barely string a sentence together, let alone, formulate a coherent thought. Thomas Vinterberg’s “Festen” has ruined me, left me in shambles. It’s an astounding piece of work; an unmitigated masterpiece, if ever there was one. If I ever make a film a fraction as good as this, I’ll retire somewhere. As long as that somewhere isn’t located near a Danish manor where the most despicable family in cinematic history lives. Wow…just, wow!
Echoes of Bergman’s “The Virgin Spring”, or the work of David Lynch and Luis Buñuel are apparent, but Rainer Sarnet is no mere collage artist. He conjures a strange, often ephemeral fairytale like no other. For all its unrelenting grossness and defiant austerity, there is an undeniable beauty beneath the quagmire of piss and shit, dirt and blood. Give yourself over to its trance-like power.
There is no other franchise/property that means more to me than 007. It’s a life-long relationship I’ve shared with that suave, tuxedo-clad super spy. At a young age, my father passed away and my uncle stepped into his shoes, and helped shape me into the man I am today. One of our pastimes was watching Bond films. All of them, over and over. It didn’t stop there, we would even make our own shorts: myself as Bond (I wouldn’t have…