Volker Schlöndorff’s visionary, surreal adaptation of Nobel laureate Günter Grass’ acclaimed novel depicts a boy caught in a baffling state of perpetual childhood while the chaotic world marches onward to the madness and folly of World War II.
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Beat the child! -- Ebert said it best: "Should I, as a member of the audience, decide to take the drum as, say, a child's toy protest against the marching cadences of the German armies? Or should I allow myself to be annoyed by the child's obnoxious habit of banging on it whenever something's not to his liking? Even if I buy the wretched drum as a Moral Symbol, I'm still stuck with the kid as a pious little bastard."
I was kind of hoping the protagonist's head would explode when he screamed; no dice. He kept on screaming, for the next two hours, and he kept on banging that fucking tin drum, and he kept going down on sixteen year old girls in his three year old's body. I was partially satiated, however, when his midget lover blew up while stalling during an air raid because she had an overwhelming urge to stop for a cup of coffee.
On peut dire que cette fable historique atteint tous les objectifs qu'elle semble s'être fixée, et l'on ne s'ennuie pas en la voyant. Ceci dit, ça ne me choque ni ne m'émeut. C'est fantasque, cruel, un peu sale, et réserve quelques scènes marquantes (la séquence des anguilles notamment), mais c'est surtout assez vain.