Respected long time cinema bible Sight and Sound simply imploded recently with this arduous bore picked as the greatest film of all time. A nearly three and a half hour endurance test about a stay at home prostitute and the monotonous, thankless existence she leads, it reeks of experimental tedium as we are asked to ruminate on banal scenes and imagery in one long extended take after the next of a woman slowly deconstructing within the tidy but dull confines of her apartment. Move over Fellini, Bunuel, Welles, Hitch, ladies first.
Delphine Seyrig plays the unhappy hooker with a glum resignation, her tricks cold, well mannered pervs (as well as care for an ingrate son) to serve director Chantal Ackerman's subtle but unbridled misandry. It is for this reason this film becomes more rant than real given Ms. Dielman's morose mood around the johns expecting a good time. With that tude she would soon be out of business.
I'm not surprised in this day of narcissistic virtue signaling this would be selected as the finest film of all time with this tepid clunker and its feminist "message" as a litmus test marathon for the true cinephile of this day and age to endure. To weather its length and gush would earn a PC merit badge alone.
After Ackerman gets her last man hating cheap shot in and paints herself into a corner she goes Peckinpaugh, and blood lets to tie matters up as disconsolate Jeanne opens up her wrists like many in the audience might wish after an unnecessary 2 hours of subterfuge. It is a pitiful admission. An off message epiphany for Ackerman who realizes all too late that if it bleeds it leads. Simply, a grossly overlong and pretentious walk on the lugubrious side, its present day pre-eminence more than likely based upon tokenism.
Delphine Seyrig plays the unhappy hooker with a glum resignation, her tricks cold, well mannered pervs (as well as care for an ingrate son) to serve director Chantal Ackerman's subtle but unbridled misandry. It is for this reason this film becomes more rant than real given Ms. Dielman's morose mood around the johns expecting a good time. With that tude she would soon be out of business.
I'm not surprised in this day of narcissistic virtue signaling this would be selected as the finest film of all time with this tepid clunker and its feminist "message" as a litmus test marathon for the true cinephile of this day and age to endure. To weather its length and gush would earn a PC merit badge alone.
After Ackerman gets her last man hating cheap shot in and paints herself into a corner she goes Peckinpaugh, and blood lets to tie matters up as disconsolate Jeanne opens up her wrists like many in the audience might wish after an unnecessary 2 hours of subterfuge. It is a pitiful admission. An off message epiphany for Ackerman who realizes all too late that if it bleeds it leads. Simply, a grossly overlong and pretentious walk on the lugubrious side, its present day pre-eminence more than likely based upon tokenism.