When we opened this film at the Baxter, I remember the stunning silences that accompanied the credits. Every so often, an art film comes through that leaves our octogenarian base puzzling over what the film was about (as well as wondering where they left their car keys). Needless to say, Michael Hancke's masterwork in repressed memories and emotions excels in ambiguity. Hancke's camerawork and the absence of music in most scenes to add a voyeuristic touch, as if the viewer is a third invisible party to the game that is being played with the target Georges Laurent, as he's plagued with VHS tapes that docuemnt his home and activities and grisly crayon drawings. Furthermore, I would go as far as to say that it's one of the best psychological thrillers I've seen in some time, for as you've probably already surmised, Hancke doesn't sacrifice the atmosphere he's generated by taking on a "clear-cut, Hollywood ending."
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