Plotting on a payment they are about to receive, residents of a collapsing collective farm see their plans turn into desolation when they discover that Irimiás, a former co-worker who they thought was dead, is coming back to the village.
After witnessing a crime during his night shift as railway switchman near the docks, a man finds a briefcase full of money. While he and his family step up their living standards, others start looking for the disappeared case.
A large, claustrophobic apartment is the setting for this intense chamber drama. In this dense setting, the inhabitants of the apartment reveal their darkest secrets, fears, obsessions and hostilities.
Miklós Székely B.
1889. German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche witnessed the whipping of a horse while traveling in Turin, Italy. He tossed his arms around the horse's neck to protect it then collapsed to the ground. In less than one month, Nietzsche would be diagnosed with a serious mental illness that would make him bed-ridden and speechless for the next eleven years until his death. But whatever did happen to the horse? This film, which is Tarr's last, follows up this question in a fictionalized story of what occurred. The man who whipped the horse is a rural farmer who makes his living taking on carting jobs into the city with his horse-drawn cart. The horse is old and in very poor health, but does its best to obey its master's commands. The farmer and his daughter must come to the understanding that it will be unable to go on sustaining their livelihoods. The dying of the horse is the foundation of this tragic tale.Written by
Everything's in ruins, everything's been degraded, but I could say that they've ruined and degraded everything, because this is not some kind of cataclysm coming about with so-called "innocent" human aid, on the contrary, it's about man's own judgment over his own self, which of course God has a big hand in, or, dare I say, takes part in, and whatever he takes part in is the most ghastly creation that you can imagine, because, you see, the world has been debased, so it doesn't matter what I say...
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Someone said before me: "Cinema dies with Béla Tarr". I believe this to be completely reasonable view; and I'm afraid it is mostly true. If this the last Tarr I will ever see, I just can't express my profound sadness. Sadness that whispers me gently into sleep in a dark and hollow room I call home.
Béla Tarr is the voice in the wilderness, wilderness of most humane nature. He is the wind and wailing of - not only the lonely human, but also - the turbulent tides of Hungarian history and for that matter, the whole of Europe. The essence of Béla Tarr is in the way he creates macrocosm inside the microcosm of a single human being.
The wind in plateau keeps on screaming, silently whispering. Telling truths about ourselves, of other humans. Who we never quite seem to connect with. And the world keeps going on, after we are gone - the wind will be there. Probably the gypsies will also be there - still.
Tarr's human is almost always and everywhere lonely, he is strong and weak, but apart from all that he (or she) is always of the most nietzschean in stature. Proud and lost; lost because of his own inescapable condition. It's also about the eternal return and it's also about the potatoes. They sure are nice and warm, bring the warmth back into your freezing body.
I'm a huge fan of his Werckmeister harmóniák (2000) and Sátántangó (1994), though there is nothing wrong with his other work also - rest of his work just doesn't reach the highest peak of filmmaking. A torinói ló is a magnificent, almost indescribable finale to his career if that is how it's going to be.
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