It is a lie that some novels are easier than adapting than others. It all depends on the price set by the author. And it is false that those who leave the cinema lament that the book was better have read the book. Debuting in the film with a film that from the first frame claims the power of fiction (or is it about ending it?) As the only element to build meaning points to the director; Mark him for daring , for crazy and even for traitor. It would be said that he even condemns him (but does he not know that what he sells are the comedies of manners?). And that, despite what it may seem, is good.
Aritz Moreno serves in 'Advantages of traveling by train' of the novel of the same title by Antonio Orejudo to propose a baroque game in its radical sense; a game that is comedy with the same evidence as tragedy; terror for his willingness to rewrite the chronicle of the crisis that inhabits us raw. It is , like the text itself in which it stands, a trapntojo , a maze of realities arranged in parallel and connected by the most elementary stupor. Orejudo himself said long ago that we live a moment of instability similar to that experienced by the people of the glorious Spanish Baroque . There is a generalized loss of faith in fiction. The old poster of "Any resemblance to reality is pure coincidence" has been replaced by that of "Based on real events"; the truth is that what the media they lie call 'post-truth' and, in our loss, we have made presidents of nations compulsive liars. Well, what is said well, we are not going.
Well, it is here that the story of a publisher who enters her husband in the asylum falls from the sky and in the most opportune way, and back home, she faces up with an alleged psychiatrist who tells her in turn the story of a madman who thought he was who he was not or who, in reality, was who he thought he was not. Or otherwise. Nothing is true because, as is clear and we are told explicitly, the likelihood is overrated . The relevant thing, however, is to get lost in a garden where trees are confused with mirrors. Let's say that Moreno bets everything to the certainty of each of his doubts and all this to let the spectator decide. The film is always offered as what it is, film, and it wants to be discussed, read backwards and, if necessary, even refuted.
If you want, the director's proposal is pure anomaly; a sharp and brilliant provocation more political than, despite appearances, simply formal. What it is about is to place the population in the center of the debate and, from there, offer a delirious and hilarious reflection on all the lies that make up issues such as identity, power, machismo and, already put, the digital universe that equals everything. In short: a bomb.
It is true that, at times, the cables cross. The script structured in unnecessary and somewhat pompous chapters comes to a strange voice in 'off' that, for a reason not yet clarified, disappears at a given time. The desire to show off in each sequence also does not help stabilize a risky formal bet that perhaps would have required more rigor and less, precisely, baroque. Anyway, from the interpretations ( that of Ernesto Alterio, Pilar Castro and Luis Tosar is miraculous ) to the 'logorreic' hammering of every crazy monologue going through that insane taste to extend the metaphors so characteristic of Orejudo (attentive to the dog lover ) puts us before a mandatory film. For its acidity, for its virulence, for its very serious claim of humor and, as has been said, of fiction. Elegant, brutal, joyful. Now, for 'The five and me'.
Invisible and alienated
For the rest, the official section continued its course to infinity (the films sprout to competition) and between the noise, two to highlight. On the one hand, 'Vivarium' , by Lorcan Finnegan, on the other, 'L'angle mort' (The Dead Angle), by Patrick-Mario Bernard and Pierre Trividic. In both cases, the fantastic is used with style and good taste to approach a deeper wound. It has always been that way, but now more.
The first one, with Imogen Poots and Jesse Eisenberg, seems like a beautiful and precious epilogue to any of the bright seasons, not the last, of 'Black mirror' . A couple comes to visit the pilot floor of an impeccable urbanization on the outskirts and ... there is no way out . Like 'The cabin' of Mercero, but the beast. The director proposes an immaculate staging at the height of a metaphor as evident as it is effective. You know, alienation, lack of communication and the abyss. Take care of that if you pretend to include some strange elements so that everything trembles. Is it a product of aliens or is it there and the aliens are we? And so. Undoubtedly, a successful story, another one, for servants, servants and mediopensionistas.
'L'angle mort' risks more. And it hurts more. The appeal of a supposed invisibility coming from it is not known where it is used by veteran directors to compose a murky and uneasy story about , in effect, the invisible . That is, blacks, immigrants, marginalized ... poor in general. Let's say that the effort to approach an almost naturalistic realism makes the fantastic starting point be assumed with a bleak naturalness. Despite the fact that the last third of the film sails in no man's land with appeals to the debatable family melodrama, the brilliance and intention of the management keep the whole completely safe. It is like that.
And said which, for the next train trip ask for the seats with the table in the middle. Or, better, almost not. For what it could happen. The conversation is overrated .
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