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Demonlover (2002)
dir. Olivier Assayas
DEMONLOVER teeters on the precipice of greatness, largely attributable to its evocative Y2K aesthetics. The interplay of reflections in glass and the tactile allure of film grain imbue the work with a meticulously orchestrated yet ostensibly chaotic visual panache. This aesthetic, while compelling, constitutes the film’s primary offering. Regrettably, it lacks a substantive exploration of spatial dynamics, a deficiency symptomatic of its epoch. Barring the esoteric arthouse exceptions, films of this era succumb to a frenetic pace that precludes contemplative analysis, with auteurs like Johnnie To being notable outliers.
The transition from 2D anime to 3D animation within the film metaphorically signifies the end of one era and the advent of another. The kitsch aesthetic of 3D, inferior to its 2D predecessor, mirrors the film’s superficial moralizing and facile interrogatives. One might argue that 3D’s proximity to reality parallels the contemporary penchant for rendering brutal fantasies with verisimilitude, as opposed to the discernible artifice of 2D, which facilitates a clearer demarcation between reality and fantasy.
A principal critique of DEMONLOVER lies in its narrative, which intermittently subsumes the stylistic elements, occasionally corrupting them with superfluous inquiries better suited to sociological discourse than cinematic critique. The film is replete with banal, anachronistic musings on sexuality, pornography, domination, and power - concerns emblematic of millennial anxieties manifesting as an inescapable nightmare. Yet, this nightmare lacks the requisite surrealism or terror to be truly effective.
If the film purports to comment on desensitization to sexual violence (a premise I find dubious), it fails, as reliance on shock value invariably alienates a segment of the audience. While one might contend that the film’s depiction of desensitized characters serves as a meta-commentary, I reject the notion that cinema should engage in such didacticism. The purported horror and disturbance pale in comparison to the visceral dread evoked by characters like Frank in BLUE VELVET, who, despite his limitations, exudes an inextricable sense of menace.
Ultimately, the film’s conclusion undermines its potential. Whether interpreted as a didactic denouement or a B-movie wink to mainstream audiences, it detracts from the film’s gravitas. Assayas’ stylistic ambitions would be better served by emulating the alienation found in Hisayasu Sato’s finest works or the profound existentialism of superior Tech Noirs. Unfortunately, Assayas’ attempt to cater to a broad audience results in a diluted experience that satisfies no one but himself. This self-indulgence, while perhaps befitting an auteur, renders the film’s serious inquiries misguided, trivial, or outright absurd. Transcendence is nowhere to be found.
Nonetheless, I afford Assayas a degree of leniency. The torment of losing Maggie Cheung could indeed drive one to the brink of insanity.
dir. Olivier Assayas
DEMONLOVER teeters on the precipice of greatness, largely attributable to its evocative Y2K aesthetics. The interplay of reflections in glass and the tactile allure of film grain imbue the work with a meticulously orchestrated yet ostensibly chaotic visual panache. This aesthetic, while compelling, constitutes the film’s primary offering. Regrettably, it lacks a substantive exploration of spatial dynamics, a deficiency symptomatic of its epoch. Barring the esoteric arthouse exceptions, films of this era succumb to a frenetic pace that precludes contemplative analysis, with auteurs like Johnnie To being notable outliers.
The transition from 2D anime to 3D animation within the film metaphorically signifies the end of one era and the advent of another. The kitsch aesthetic of 3D, inferior to its 2D predecessor, mirrors the film’s superficial moralizing and facile interrogatives. One might argue that 3D’s proximity to reality parallels the contemporary penchant for rendering brutal fantasies with verisimilitude, as opposed to the discernible artifice of 2D, which facilitates a clearer demarcation between reality and fantasy.
A principal critique of DEMONLOVER lies in its narrative, which intermittently subsumes the stylistic elements, occasionally corrupting them with superfluous inquiries better suited to sociological discourse than cinematic critique. The film is replete with banal, anachronistic musings on sexuality, pornography, domination, and power - concerns emblematic of millennial anxieties manifesting as an inescapable nightmare. Yet, this nightmare lacks the requisite surrealism or terror to be truly effective.
If the film purports to comment on desensitization to sexual violence (a premise I find dubious), it fails, as reliance on shock value invariably alienates a segment of the audience. While one might contend that the film’s depiction of desensitized characters serves as a meta-commentary, I reject the notion that cinema should engage in such didacticism. The purported horror and disturbance pale in comparison to the visceral dread evoked by characters like Frank in BLUE VELVET, who, despite his limitations, exudes an inextricable sense of menace.
Ultimately, the film’s conclusion undermines its potential. Whether interpreted as a didactic denouement or a B-movie wink to mainstream audiences, it detracts from the film’s gravitas. Assayas’ stylistic ambitions would be better served by emulating the alienation found in Hisayasu Sato’s finest works or the profound existentialism of superior Tech Noirs. Unfortunately, Assayas’ attempt to cater to a broad audience results in a diluted experience that satisfies no one but himself. This self-indulgence, while perhaps befitting an auteur, renders the film’s serious inquiries misguided, trivial, or outright absurd. Transcendence is nowhere to be found.
Nonetheless, I afford Assayas a degree of leniency. The torment of losing Maggie Cheung could indeed drive one to the brink of insanity.
3/10 (Passable)
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San Franciscan lesbian dwarves and their tomato orgies.
San Franciscan lesbian dwarves and their tomato orgies.
