Annette

Annette

I’m crying of joy, fear, sadness and anger.

As twisted and fucked up as a Lynch film but without the human personality behind the screen of fiction holding your hands and hugging your feelings of fear and sadness. Annette connects with the viewer to express a disconnection, an existential crisis of cahos between love and hate. Stuck in the spaces of hate in a time of love, the film opens onto what is potentially one of my favourite opening in any films (need to rewatch). Unprepared for its stylistic transcendance out of its own time, floathing in the fades of a dying industry, Leos Carax drowns the viewer into the artificial beauties of the musical genre. What seems like the new news reveal itself to be a futile escape from the past. Perhaps the true nature of what escapism is, to break out from the past, to disconnect with its hatred. Yet it is an escape that leads nowhere as there’s no destination, hate to fear and anger of love. It is a cahotic hole of joy; a musical swaddle singing an harmony of its whole sadness.
Love brings birth to an object…
A subject of art by a human object? 
A comedian and an actress make love together and have a doll - symbol of determinism, freeless of its own human realization - constructed and controlled upon hate… 
At the time and place in which Annette exist in - life and death - the film questions the viewer (beyond the screen of its fictional harmony) if there’s a director holding the strings of their own performance. If life is like cinema, then what role do we play in the making of the film, in the making of "the" life? Leos Carax is a director; a film director and a life director, and what I got the most out from Annette is that Leos Carax is a much better filmmaker than a lifemaker… in fact, Annette is one of the most depressing films I’ve ever seen. An escape from the darkness of night that cannot catch the moon nor the stars, flying over the flux of time in a place where fiction (rather than reality) has become our spaces of comfort, one driving us all crazy. Leos Carax seems (self) aware of that, as to not get too obnoxiously isolated within the airless indoors of his truthful fictional play the film cross-cut from interior to exterior, from past to present, from the work performance to the one escaping it… yet all still enclosed within the audio/visual contrasts of Carax's fictional harmony. A dance of digital colors between life and death, fiction and reality, light and darkness that coexist in the past and present to which sinks the viewer in its same existential troubled future.

Leos Carax is one of the most inspiring filmmakers for me - up there with Michael Mann, Nobuhiko Ōbayashi, Francis Ford Coppola, Claire Denis, Wong Kar-wai, Scott Barley (to name a few…) - yet my reception from this film’s expression is perhaps something I’d prefer to socially stay away from. As within its coexistence of Carax’s love for the craft is a craft of hate, a focus on death within a deeply blured life…

Thanks god this wasn’t written by Leos Carax… was scared to death while watching it.

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