Here is a movie of almost three hours in length which by its end had been accorded that festival accolade that many directors dream of: walkouts. Seats cracked as they were slammed up and people were stomping out, huffing with resentment. The seat-slamming was so widespread it was virtually a drum-roll.
In fact, this movie has moments of real interest and visual beauty, but it is hampered by the most tiresome arthouse cliché: the idea that drifting sensual moodiness and listless sexual tension finally has to be crowned or possibly redeemed with violence. And when two sexy young people rather arbitrarily come across a handgun – a real handgun which moreover looks almost indistinguishable from the water-pistol with which they had earlier been fooling around – well, we know we have to apply Chekhov’s rule about what happens to a firearm which is revealed in act one.

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