Beatrice Fago

Indifferent landscapes, refracting light, some lonely bird and the window to the sebum-laden living room made of patterned wallpaper and trivialities. Cut. Tenacious sequences inflate moments to cliff-hangers and shatter their tremulous spectatorship. Thundering leitmotifs – in constant intoxication by German disinterest – with no backrest or lederhosen. Black-red-gold at full mast, the cinema is dead.