"I'm also Malina and Malina is me"
Somewhat akin to a good taste© Possession, Schroeter's unhinged romance shatters the psyche through free associative love that manifests in all encompassing destruction. Huppert pursued by an eternal Trouble-Will-Find-Me atmosphere, the disputes, internal and external, an act in vacated spaces dominated by lingering resentments. Strolls scored by the weeping strings of the wandering violinist, omnipresent mirrors a ricochet of escalating mania that weaponize the projection as an attack on the bearer.
Huppert bellows an operatic obsession in the form of a love triangle but it's written in the endless turmoil of a circle, its starts and ends the same ruination that lays the bricks for the walled apocalypse. In the absence of identity there's little more to do that plead with the reflection while all the memoirs burn, as Malina turns animal, anima, animus, all - the ultimate act of creativity the one that annihilates everything.