When he returns from teaching class, a professor of philology is interrogated by his wife, who distrusts his pedagogical approach, and his Academy of the Muses which, inspired by classical references, is intended to regenerate the world through poetry.
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Ah, much child-drivel predominates in the MUBI discourse around this extraordinarily illuminating investigation (and it clearly was an investigation; it sets out to discover itself). We start w/ the theoretical. Theory as collective intoxicant. The charm of academy. We descend into practice ... and into something wretched and sobering. Love and desire. Indeed, literature is their ideal domain. Life is a mess.
A very fatiguing movie in its weary formal solutions (the constant transparencies through glasses, the tremblant exposition of meaningful dialogues) and in its scholastic variant of documentary-fiction, not to mention a domestic idea of poetry as a salvific transcription of the world. Too much pret-a-porter "spirit" in a film where i would like to save the stimulating presence of the teacher's wife.
What the fuck happened Guerin? Hard to believe an auteur who made Sylvia and Train of shadows - both such wonderful form, and light, can make something like this.. May well be one of the worst films I've from a filmmaker I used to admire a lot. Since Sylvia he has been on a real decline.
Part of the new wave of post-language digital cinema: A constructed experiment that constantly risks falling into the masturbatory and irrelevance that are associated with its heavily academic texture but that always manages to skirt that pitfall: like a blooming flower, the very deliberate games of thought thrown back and forward by these character-people give way to REAL, genuine moments that I'm sure [cont.]
It's sad to see how Guerín has abandoned his devotion towards light and how he has built this movie over a lot of blah blah blah about ridiculously superstitious ideas. Sometimes when nobody was talking and the image wasn't overexposed you could get some nice contemplative moments.
Wow, yeah, I understand. This film is handjob film. This film is for critics who are dedicated his heart to patriarchy & exhibit his penis. Vomitingly dreadful, pathetically macho garbage. That's the way you're, JLG.
Despite the good acting, it's never refreshing to watch emotionally dishonest characters play intellectual games with one another, or indulge the half-hearted maneuvers and inverted rigmarole that inevitably sets them further away from their intended goal of real intimacy—which pretty much defines the bourgeoisie's main purpose in any age: to remind us of what is unbearably self-conscious, -reflexive, and unreal.