A intro da coreografia de Candy com os tigres está algo de soberbo. Neste thriller nostálgico semi-documental é revisitada uma região que tanto ou nada mudou ao longo de 30 anos, mostrando os recantos menos tourist-friendly mais ainda assim fascinantes, provando que esta não será a última vez que vi Macau.
Reality and fiction are intertwined in this return to Macao. Guerra da Mata (the protagonist) shares many things with Guerra da Mata (the director) and it's quite nice to follow him revisiting these places that feel so familiar and yet, at the same time, so different after 30 years. It doesn't work as an idilic postcard for Macao, but it definitely made me wanna go there.
A thriller narrated in the first person in which we never see the protagonist, or for that matter any of the action described onscreen. Fascinating from a formal standpoint, attaining a strangely meditative quality and leaving the audience as disoriented as its protagonist. Unfortunately it's also a bit frustrating, even with its short running time. Still, it's an audacious experiment, even if it doesn't always work.
An offbeat detective story told entirely non-diagetically, permeating some curious boundary between radio play, travelogue and noir. Some of the best moments happen when the narration evaporates entirely, leaving only the mystery of what might—or might not—be occurring out of frame, in the mystical nowheres of Macao's sleepy streets. A true delight.
Décevant. And why ? J'avais en tête le Macao de Volodine, qui compte des tueurs là aussi, mais portés par une saudade d'une autre trempe. Impression de tomber sur un Macao pour touriste, où le fil ténu d'une fausse intrigue en voix-off ne sert qu'à relier des images incongrues ou désolées, mais qui ne font ni sens ni émotion. Ni fiction, ni documentaire. Bel exemple de ce qui serait à éviter.