Annette

Annette

“You keep dying, my dear.”

One of the most immediately cool things about this one is the lyrical composition, which takes the story, itself an amalgam of concept album/opera/Greek tragedy/Shakespearean comedy tropes, and reflects it in the cadence, meter; and fudged translation of its words. Annette speaks in the kind of images that haven’t hit since the 1920s, the kind I have never seen before. Genuinely the first film of the new era, and it happens to be about the most terrible feelings in the worst heart of a man in the world.

There’s a lot to *hate* ab this, especially on the surface, and a lot of stuff that didn’t hit in a way it was maybe supposed to, at least a little. The juvenile political provocations, the strained commentary on media as a god, the amount of space given to the kind of thought that goes through the heads of men who hate woman so much that they’ll drain all love and music from the world.

I was surprised by the end, then, that it wound up hitting me so much grander and weirder. Adam Driver gives the best performance of some year I can’t quite place, especially in his stomach and jaw and toes. I’ve had nightmares where I have watched people who I have loved die who have already died several times over in my life already. Annette gets that. 

Annette is a nightmare. It puts every contemporary work about misogyny to shame. It kills the world with crocodile tears on its face and wipes them away with the bloody ponchos of its victims. Sympathy for the abyss. Loved it.

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