This was such an exciting piece of giallo experimental art from start to finish, and while I am left with many questions and only half-baked theories, I am still satisfied alone with how stimulating the emphasis on primary colors, eyes, sexuality, and the male gaze's violent side was. There is a linear plot somewhere in here, but it experiences many bumps in its road in the labyrinthian set and story. Just wow.
The schmaltzy Art Nouveau & its putrid claustrophobic apartment jungle were overloading. Ucks.. Bernhard's old grumpbag Reger must feel avenged. His scorn for the "disgusting Jugendstil" is oddly championed here by dull & obsessive aestheticism overlapping kitsch. Film's useful side is frequent check on nipples, 'cuz in the plot they are at risk of being chopped off all the time & be preserved as cherries in a jelly.
3,5 Cattet and Forzani go on with the sensual exploration of the inconscious. Amer was about the female desire, TSCOYBT explores the male schizophrenic subjectivity. The film is indebted with Argento (the dream logic of Inferno), Lynch (Inland Empire) and Satoshi Kon. It is not true that the narrative here is not important: on the contrary, it is as important as the visual aspect of the film.
Stylized giallo. It seems that the duo Cattet/Forzani since 'Amer', their blaring first film, haven't kept moving. With this last film, it's clearly form over content. Too bad that they seem to covet only Dario Argento's movies instead of eyeing more interesting directors who knew that, in order to present the perfect giallo, some emotion had to be inserted in the recipe. 3 stars because I'm a nice guy. Only.
Visually and aurally sumptuous, this is giallo on 'shrooms. It'll be a good companion piece to Peter Strickland's marvelous "Berberian Sound Studio" in a neo-gialli double-feature. I'm not sure the complaints about plot or story have much relevance for these films. The attribute to measure is the evocation of mental states and perceptions. The tale of the doctor's wife is a sensory masterpiece.
Individual sequences are astonishing, but the brief flashes of brilliance don't justify the whole. There's a mystery that never resolves, characters that never develop, set-pieces so mechanical they become interchangeable and as such devoid of peril. Again, the filmmakers reduce the appeal of the genre to a bunch of empty fetishes; the same irritating grab-bag of techniques seen previous in Amer recycled ad nauseam.
Polaroid on drugs. This film has really nice scenes, but it proves that nice scenes can mean nothing really. In the middle of chaos, the story gets lost and I kept thinking: how come it only has 90 minutes and hasn't finished yet? A good idea gone wrong.