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The Turin Horse, 2011
In a bleak, wind-swept landscape, a father (János Derzsi) and his daughter (Erika Bók) live alone in a house, along with a horse who pulls the father's cart. Over the course of several days, we watch as the mental wellbeing of all involved slowly disintegrates and life itself seems to grind to a halt.
I can certainly see why this film is so beloved. In addition to looking absolutely gorgeous, its slow meditation on isolation and death and maybe on depression plays out with small twists and turns. While I never felt myself fully give over to the rhythms of the film, I really enjoyed it.
I haven't read much about the film or analysis of it, because I think I'd like to write about it without subconsciously trying to align my feelings with someone else's. For me, the movie was about the weight of being and of survival, and what it means to hit a breaking point.
The film begins with the story of Nietzsche having a breakdown when he witnessed a cart driver whipping a horse who refused to move. Everyone has some degree of a survival drive, and this film seems to examine the strange space where that drive gives way. The first thing that happens is that the father notices that the woodworms are no longer working their way through the house. This lack of appetite eventually extends to the horse, and finally to the father and daughter.
In fact, one of the earliest surprises to me was how little of their food they ate. I was shocked to see how much came off of their plates, seemingly just thrown away by the daughter after their meal. The baseline existence that we see of the two inhabitants already feels like a portrait of serious depression: the father spends a lot of time just laid out in bed, while the daughter spends a lot of time staring out the window.
Where the movie goes from there with the idea of death and what it means to give up the basic gestures of living was interesting and unexpected, especially in the last 10 minutes or so.
The movie is, as I mentioned, absolutely beautiful. It's a haunting beauty, to be sure, with a perpetual flutter of leaves and whistling winds. The film is crisp to look at, so that you see every crease in the characters' faces and every grain in the wood of their home.
I had no criticisms of this movie. It's true that while I really enjoyed watching it, I never totally felt myself fall under its spell. Had I resonated more with its rhythms, I bet this would be a perfect score for me. As it stands, this is a great film and I'm really glad I checked it out.
The Turin Horse, 2011
In a bleak, wind-swept landscape, a father (János Derzsi) and his daughter (Erika Bók) live alone in a house, along with a horse who pulls the father's cart. Over the course of several days, we watch as the mental wellbeing of all involved slowly disintegrates and life itself seems to grind to a halt.
I can certainly see why this film is so beloved. In addition to looking absolutely gorgeous, its slow meditation on isolation and death and maybe on depression plays out with small twists and turns. While I never felt myself fully give over to the rhythms of the film, I really enjoyed it.
I haven't read much about the film or analysis of it, because I think I'd like to write about it without subconsciously trying to align my feelings with someone else's. For me, the movie was about the weight of being and of survival, and what it means to hit a breaking point.
The film begins with the story of Nietzsche having a breakdown when he witnessed a cart driver whipping a horse who refused to move. Everyone has some degree of a survival drive, and this film seems to examine the strange space where that drive gives way. The first thing that happens is that the father notices that the woodworms are no longer working their way through the house. This lack of appetite eventually extends to the horse, and finally to the father and daughter.
In fact, one of the earliest surprises to me was how little of their food they ate. I was shocked to see how much came off of their plates, seemingly just thrown away by the daughter after their meal. The baseline existence that we see of the two inhabitants already feels like a portrait of serious depression: the father spends a lot of time just laid out in bed, while the daughter spends a lot of time staring out the window.
Where the movie goes from there with the idea of death and what it means to give up the basic gestures of living was interesting and unexpected, especially in the last 10 minutes or so.
The movie is, as I mentioned, absolutely beautiful. It's a haunting beauty, to be sure, with a perpetual flutter of leaves and whistling winds. The film is crisp to look at, so that you see every crease in the characters' faces and every grain in the wood of their home.
I had no criticisms of this movie. It's true that while I really enjoyed watching it, I never totally felt myself fall under its spell. Had I resonated more with its rhythms, I bet this would be a perfect score for me. As it stands, this is a great film and I'm really glad I checked it out.