These grisly ignorance, the fear that you, the blood
bibbernden lumps freeze. The brain gymnastics in all
directions, looking for tiny shreds least one reference point.
But where it also moves, it slips and slides back into the
zähklebrigen swamp complete helplessness. Nothing offers. The
house, from a side street. Gusseisern fenced. A freudloser
rhododendron bush in front of it. Cars park, passersby stroll
on the pavement. Anytime someone leaves the house. The view
remains unmoved. A door slams. Silence. Actually, completely
harmless. But who has the look ever thrown? And why send anyone
on the video tape preserved views, without regard to the final
races, and carries him into apparent children's drawings with
black contours and Blutgeschmier? Again and again the house
entrance. Thoughts turn in a circle, tumble in the boundless
space, finding no reason. One sees: Georges, as he breaks to
work, his son Pierrot in the Heimkunft. Otherwise nothing. But
why?
And then this Flüsteranrufe from somewhere. Without naming
them. Paranoia writhes the stomach every time, if Georges and
Anne Laurent rätselnd front of the giant screen of their
television amid their bücherüberpfropften cold living room,
fast forward, rewind, searching for the hidden clues. Georges
knows all the big, and considers himself a place for such.
Finally, he moderated the most successful literary Talk round
on television. But there is no dark spots, perhaps somewhere in
the past? And it could harm someone? Suddenly, not just the
doorstep passage. Georges birthplace, an unknown street, a
rooster with abgehacktem head. Oppressive reflection images.
The noose lies close to entangle themselves deeper and deeper
Georges and Anne, always panischer is the fear of persecution,
no one shall exercise physical violence, but the feeling to be
observed without knowing by whom, the next step suspect to be
paralyzed everything. And the videos draw districts.
Blutbeschmierte postcards landed in the school of Pierrot. And
again and again at family Laurent himself
Very slowly lurch long ignored reminder shreds back in Georges
selbstgefälliges memory. A durchtbarer suspected manifests
itself. He stumbles over his own narrow-mindedness and self
justice. Will trust and honesty, but he tries, even his closest
confidants to deceive, contains important to them prior to his
past will not make it. He suspected and convicted, even though
the evidence hardly tangible than soap bubbles. Fragmented
trust what Anne, as the only wise and sensitive acting family
mother, desperate. It runs with husband and son against
mistrust, bornierte and verhärmte emotional walls.
Caché, the new film by Michael Haneken
zerknabbert the nervous costume, is a genialisch-herber
boulders and even recently won the directing prize at the
Cannes Film Festival. It blurs the boundaries between filmed
reality, gefilmtem movie filmed in the reality and gefilmtem TV
filmed in the real world. An incredibly thrilling and
disturbing film about guilt and atonement, lies and
concealment, he turned. With a fine sense of nuanced character
traits and relationships with psychological acumen and unusual
means he stokes the fears of persecution, which is spread when
one realizes that followed and monitored - without knowing by
whom. He defines the wrong tracks, hidden, twisted, confused.
Spammers. Also, the audience will lied, it will be deprived of
important evidence, so he was in the same situation as the
movie characters. Nothing is clear, but we must somehow his
vision of the world so zusammenzuimmern. Very slowly lift the
veil, little really happened and it is almost like Jackson
Pollock, blood everywhere. Then something happens. But who is
at the end of guilt, who is the real perpetrator and the victim
who? And who has all really started? A grisly good film.
