Soderbergh’s new twist on his road to revolutionising craft, if not necessarily art – a looming premise of gold-standard corporate totalitarianism.
Zvyagintsev’s eulogy to humanity lost, the severing of connections in the fetishisation of the material – an absence, rather than a presence, a dark jewel, which, when observed against the light, shows no reflection.
It nourished me like a long-lost lover, a soul-mate found when all hope is lost, but it left me pining for a certain perfection in life that is impossible to conjure, a dark fairy-tale with a happy ending… An illusion of the light.
What I reckon the aftermath of Oscars 2018 will be is what I see every day – the sheer hypocrisy of an industry built on appearances will soak in all the good intentions, appropriate the sentiments, and pretty much do the same thing as always – profit, pander and exclude. But it will have a dent in its side, a vulnerability in its veneer – a slightly less relaxed attitude about being called out for what it does every day. Precisely.
A love story for narcissists, deceptively tender to the touch, an exquisite cashmere cardigan concealing its cold, cold heart.