Bucharest, October 28th 2025.
— and frankly, if that’s how long it takes to produce something this good, 
we should all agree to wait patiently, quietly, 
perhaps in 4/4 time.
Watching TÁR feels like attending a concert where the conductor, the philosopher, and the psychoanalyst have formed an avant-garde trio, performing an aria on power, desire, and moral decay. 
It is, quite simply, a brilliant masterclass in cinema — elegant, merciless, and calibrated with Swiss-watch precision.
delivering a performance so technically perfect 
it borders on the surgical. 
Every gesture, pause, and micro-tilt of her head seems measured with metronomic precision — as if her pulse itself had been rehearsed. 
until what remains is a portrait of genius so lifelike 
it feels dangerous to touch. 
Watching Blanchett act 
is like watching someone conduct their own nervous system. It’s frighteningly good.
The supporting cast rises to the challenge. 
Noémie Merlant exudes the quiet brilliance of someone who already knows how the film will end 
but won’t spoil it, 
while Mark Strong projects that particular kind of male authority 
that thrives on being just slightly less competent than advertised — but exquisitely so.
Field’s decision to explore motherhood within a same-sex female couple feels both overdue and refreshingly un-didactic, 
as though he simply assumed audiences could handle nuance. 
(A bold assumption, in this century.)
The music, of course, is divine, especially in the scenes where Lydia commands the orchestra like a Nietzschean force of nature — half artist, half autocrat. 
One almost expects her to turn to the camera and conduct us, and we would obey without hesitation.
The locations are immaculate: Berlin rendered as a landscape of order and repression, every corridor an existential corridor. 
The compositions are so exact that Kubrick’s ghost may have given his spectral approval. 
This isn’t cinematography; it’s geometry with feelings.
— a mere narrative detail, perhaps, though in our current geopolitical climate, even her bow strokes seem to carry subtext. 
Coincidence? Probably. 
Symbolism? Definitely.
You leave the theater 
simultaneously humbled and exhilarated, 
wondering if you should applaud or apologize.
Sixteen years well spent, Mr. Field. 
If the next masterpiece requires another sixteen, 
we’ll wait 
— in silence, in reverence, and in perfect tempo.
Giulia Dobre
Bucharest









 
No comments:
Post a Comment