Reseñas de la crítica

Best of all, none of these levels of analysis or combinations thereof, could yield a truly conclusive reading of The Loneliest Planet, because the film is stubbornly elusive, making meaning(s) that it refuses to ever pin down as definitive--not least, in its ambiguous final shot.

The first half of the movie is so uneventful that it smacks of art-house self-indulgence. Loktev bisects the story with a frightening encounter that radically alters the emotional dynamic between the lovers and raises the tension enough to sustain more silent marching across picturesque terrain. I can't deny that her scheme is dramatically effective, though I left the movie more conscious of the scheme than the drama.

Flooded with new meaning, the film navigates rocky territory, from the dangers of globetrotting naïveté to the pressures of modern masculinity. At heart, though, this is a story about tests of character—those little trials, sprung on us at random, that reveal who we really are. For Nica and Alex, the moment of truth is a burden. Ignorance never seemed so blissful.

Loktev builds tension masterfully in the first half, but with small moments of danger and discord that trouble what is otherwise a pleasant outing. And when the thing happens, Gujabidze, a fascinating and sometimes tremendously funny presence, complicates the relationships all the more.

[Alex and Nica's] isolation from each other, from us and from Dato is part of the point of the film, which is (speaking of paradoxes) aggressive in its subtlety. It is gripping and haunting, but also coy and elusive.

[The major event is] such a boldly sly move that, along with her masterfully spare sophomore film Day Night Day Night, Loktev has effectively situated herself as the twenty-first century's (M)inimalist heir to Hitchcock.

With this opening image, writer-director Julia Loktev sets up her extraordinary second fiction feature in two ways: She announces an intention to explore sex and gender murkiness and warns that this is a film to watch carefully, one that demands distraction-free contemplation.

Reviewers of the film have elided elaboration as well. This is less an act of journalistic integrity than a validation of the film's nonverbal resonance, as it enters a new metaphysical space in which relationships are renegotiated with hapless desperation and competing impulses, plagued by new language barriers far more insurmountable than the film's unsubtitled foreign tongues.

On the loneliest planet, sometimes a relationship's healing after what feels like a world-ending fight doesn't come by way of dramatic resolutions—angry arguments or makeup sex—but through recourse to shared routines that connect back to the internal rhythms of the relationship, wordlessly beginning to revive its wonder.

[Loktev's] movies are journeys that arrive at a test of will, and she's seemingly more interested in failures of nerve than successes. (Hers is a kind of anti-action filmmaking.) Still, the trek goes on for Alex and Nica. The warmhearted couple we've come to know would surely be able to talk this rift out, but maybe they weren't that couple to begin with.

[The reveal on Dato's backstory] makes for a clumsily tendentious conclusion to an otherwise compelling and often wonderfully subtle piece of work.

The Loneliest Planet stresses how single moments can disrupt our entire lives, whether it's a car crash or a kiss. Whether these are tragedies or valuable learning experiences Loktev leaves ambiguous. The movie ends with the dismantling of a campsite: is it a metaphor for the dismantling of the characters' lives, or for the packing up of their problems? Like the meaning of that central incident, it's up to you.