You've got to give John Malkovich credit for his directorial debut: instead of making some corny, expositionary thriller, he instead made this stylised, impressionistic film that eschews conventional causality and contrivance in favour of showing us just a scattering of glimpses at an elusive story. And the piece definitely has an atmosphere, but watching it, one has the feeling one might have at an art gallery, the images are powerful but lack connections, and the closed characters also give little away. The fact that the drama takes place in an unnamed South American country, and one whose inhabitants speak English in a (presumably deliberate but still bewildering) variety of accents maybe doesn't help; that in the absence of specifics, this is a story taking place in a country of the mind. It's still an intelligent and occasionally beguiling film: but I'm not convinced of the substance behind the effect.
Review of The Dancer Upstairs
