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[REC]
The art of filmic capture is concerned chiefly with the reproduction of the fundamental trope of the sensory aesthetic. As Nubar Gulbenkian put it, “The best number for a dinner party is two, I myself and a damn good head waiter”. Clearly Gulbenkian was ahead of his time, possessing of an exceptional predictive clarity to sit alongside his bejewelled palace of the classic oil baron, as his quirky quip encapsulated the efforts of an entire generation of auteurs, from José Rizal to Bernard Philipe Groslier, and everything in between.
It would be remiss of me to falter in my analysis of [REC] by placing it along the same arc of cinema d’Europe classique as uneasy masterpieces such as l’Occident kidnappé, Vazeni Obcani or Václav Havel’s Lidové novijny. To discuss [REC] without paying due attention to its forebears would be a crime worthy of the venerable Takashi Shiraishi himself. It’s emetic forsage is unusual in its dedication to its own legacy, recreating almost shot for shot the congenial machinations of Don Sonziras de Madrin’s demise at the hands of Juan Jermain de Plessis and his rag-tag band of peasants de la fleur. The energetic and unfocussed nature of the framing is reminiscent of an early Petr Pithart, yet is clearly much less successful. The premise, while initially derivative, progresses slowly, like the mud-sodden cart of Christine Juliette, in that most famous of scenes. While the anxious accord between dialogue and conscenetre is maintained for perhaps half an hour, it soon descends into the predictable.
The hackneyed rehashing of Romero’s original rural horreur provides little to write home about, plodding along neatly to its all-too-brief climax. It seems as if Balagueró based his screenplay entirely on the breathtakingly original piece Michigan, which placed a reporter in the midst of an urban terror-scene and played out its events without the jittery and over-excited camerawork of Plaza. For any philistine unfamiliar with the most prized assets of European Cinema, [REC] might seem like a thrilling return to the horror genre, proudly debunking the cliché-ridden Western horror films of the last decade. Any knowledge of its most conventional of legacies, however, reduces its impact somewhat.
I cannot with a clear conscience recommend [REC] to any self-respecting ensign de film. It will perhaps be most comfortable filling screen time between episodes of Dalziel and Pascoe on a bleak Saturday night, and therefore I give it a mere forty six and three quarters percent
The art of filmic capture is concerned chiefly with the reproduction of the fundamental trope of the sensory aesthetic. As Nubar Gulbenkian put it, “The best number for a dinner party is two, I myself and a damn good head waiter”. Clearly Gulbenkian was ahead of his time, possessing of an exceptional predictive clarity to sit alongside his bejewelled palace of the classic oil baron, as his quirky quip encapsulated the efforts of an entire generation of auteurs, from José Rizal to Bernard Philipe Groslier, and everything in between.
It would be remiss of me to falter in my analysis of [REC] by placing it along the same arc of cinema d’Europe classique as uneasy masterpieces such as l’Occident kidnappé, Vazeni Obcani or Václav Havel’s Lidové novijny. To discuss [REC] without paying due attention to its forebears would be a crime worthy of the venerable Takashi Shiraishi himself. It’s emetic forsage is unusual in its dedication to its own legacy, recreating almost shot for shot the congenial machinations of Don Sonziras de Madrin’s demise at the hands of Juan Jermain de Plessis and his rag-tag band of peasants de la fleur. The energetic and unfocussed nature of the framing is reminiscent of an early Petr Pithart, yet is clearly much less successful. The premise, while initially derivative, progresses slowly, like the mud-sodden cart of Christine Juliette, in that most famous of scenes. While the anxious accord between dialogue and conscenetre is maintained for perhaps half an hour, it soon descends into the predictable.
The hackneyed rehashing of Romero’s original rural horreur provides little to write home about, plodding along neatly to its all-too-brief climax. It seems as if Balagueró based his screenplay entirely on the breathtakingly original piece Michigan, which placed a reporter in the midst of an urban terror-scene and played out its events without the jittery and over-excited camerawork of Plaza. For any philistine unfamiliar with the most prized assets of European Cinema, [REC] might seem like a thrilling return to the horror genre, proudly debunking the cliché-ridden Western horror films of the last decade. Any knowledge of its most conventional of legacies, however, reduces its impact somewhat.
I cannot with a clear conscience recommend [REC] to any self-respecting ensign de film. It will perhaps be most comfortable filling screen time between episodes of Dalziel and Pascoe on a bleak Saturday night, and therefore I give it a mere forty six and three quarters percent
I disagree entirely, and whilst not entirely imbued in it, this review has a distinct air of pretension, not to mention your cheeky paraphrasing of my review.
[REC]
The art of filmic capture is concerned chiefly with the reproduction of the fundamental trope of the sensory aesthetic. As Nubar Gulbenkian put it, “The best number for a dinner party is two, I myself and a damn good head waiter”. Clearly Gulbenkian was ahead of his time, possessing of an exceptional predictive clarity to sit alongside his bejewelled palace of the classic oil baron, as his quirky quip encapsulated the efforts of an entire generation of auteurs, from José Rizal to Bernard Philipe Groslier, and everything in between.
It would be remiss of me to falter in my analysis of [REC] by placing it along the same arc of cinema d’Europe classique as uneasy masterpieces such as l’Occident kidnappé, Vazeni Obcani or Václav Havel’s Lidové novijny. To discuss [REC] without paying due attention to its forebears would be a crime worthy of the venerable Takashi Shiraishi himself. It’s emetic forsage is unusual in its dedication to its own legacy, recreating almost shot for shot the congenial machinations of Don Sonziras de Madrin’s demise at the hands of Juan Jermain de Plessis and his rag-tag band of peasants de la fleur. The energetic and unfocussed nature of the framing is reminiscent of an early Petr Pithart, yet is clearly much less successful. The premise, while initially derivative, progresses slowly, like the mud-sodden cart of Christine Juliette, in that most famous of scenes. While the anxious accord between dialogue and conscenetre is maintained for perhaps half an hour, it soon descends into the predictable.
The hackneyed rehashing of Romero’s original rural horreur provides little to write home about, plodding along neatly to its all-too-brief climax. It seems as if Balagueró based his screenplay entirely on the breathtakingly original piece Michigan, which placed a reporter in the midst of an urban terror-scene and played out its events without the jittery and over-excited camerawork of Plaza. For any philistine unfamiliar with the most prized assets of European Cinema, [REC] might seem like a thrilling return to the horror genre, proudly debunking the cliché-ridden Western horror films of the last decade. Any knowledge of its most conventional of legacies, however, reduces its impact somewhat.
I cannot with a clear conscience recommend [REC] to any self-respecting ensign de film. It will perhaps be most comfortable filling screen time between episodes of Dalziel and Pascoe on a bleak Saturday night, and therefore I give it a mere forty six and three quarters percent
The art of filmic capture is concerned chiefly with the reproduction of the fundamental trope of the sensory aesthetic. As Nubar Gulbenkian put it, “The best number for a dinner party is two, I myself and a damn good head waiter”. Clearly Gulbenkian was ahead of his time, possessing of an exceptional predictive clarity to sit alongside his bejewelled palace of the classic oil baron, as his quirky quip encapsulated the efforts of an entire generation of auteurs, from José Rizal to Bernard Philipe Groslier, and everything in between.
It would be remiss of me to falter in my analysis of [REC] by placing it along the same arc of cinema d’Europe classique as uneasy masterpieces such as l’Occident kidnappé, Vazeni Obcani or Václav Havel’s Lidové novijny. To discuss [REC] without paying due attention to its forebears would be a crime worthy of the venerable Takashi Shiraishi himself. It’s emetic forsage is unusual in its dedication to its own legacy, recreating almost shot for shot the congenial machinations of Don Sonziras de Madrin’s demise at the hands of Juan Jermain de Plessis and his rag-tag band of peasants de la fleur. The energetic and unfocussed nature of the framing is reminiscent of an early Petr Pithart, yet is clearly much less successful. The premise, while initially derivative, progresses slowly, like the mud-sodden cart of Christine Juliette, in that most famous of scenes. While the anxious accord between dialogue and conscenetre is maintained for perhaps half an hour, it soon descends into the predictable.
The hackneyed rehashing of Romero’s original rural horreur provides little to write home about, plodding along neatly to its all-too-brief climax. It seems as if Balagueró based his screenplay entirely on the breathtakingly original piece Michigan, which placed a reporter in the midst of an urban terror-scene and played out its events without the jittery and over-excited camerawork of Plaza. For any philistine unfamiliar with the most prized assets of European Cinema, [REC] might seem like a thrilling return to the horror genre, proudly debunking the cliché-ridden Western horror films of the last decade. Any knowledge of its most conventional of legacies, however, reduces its impact somewhat.
I cannot with a clear conscience recommend [REC] to any self-respecting ensign de film. It will perhaps be most comfortable filling screen time between episodes of Dalziel and Pascoe on a bleak Saturday night, and therefore I give it a mere forty six and three quarters percent