Ceremoniously shifting from breaking wave to breaking wave, cast adrift to buoyantly submerge, the surf submissively dominating, an exacting cyclical shock, one young playwright, fascinated by insubordination, jostling the erotically profane, is interrupted, is, slowly, commodified, undeniably secure in his misplacements, subdued emphatic gusts, assured of their tidal pertinence, to enact the derailment of triumph.
On its own terms.
Ambiguity/ambivalence beguilingly solemnizes the dialectic, the exchange, a protracted piecemeal purge, sensuously persuasive, overpoweringly contained.
As the page turns.
A reading.
Precision.
Opportunity.
Mesmerizing mythical lambasted seduction generously vouchsafes its domineering obsequiousness, in Roman Polanski's crippling La Vénus à la fourrure (Venus in Furs), existentialism be damned, fiesta.
My favourite filmic adaptation of a play with a small cast and minimal setting is Sidney Lumet's Long Day's Journey into Night, but La Vénus à la fourrure now firmly occupies second place in my thoughts, due to Emmanuelle Seigner and Mathieu Amalric's powerful performances.
Opulently humble.
The ending was a surprise since it makes a definitive suggestion, although ambiguity remains, only a vestige however.
I would have faded with him tied to the cactus.
There must have been passionate arguments here.
Perhaps the definitive suggestion makes for a stronger ending.
I admit to being a sucker for critical controversy.
Not that there isn't plenty of critical controversy in the film.
You could argue that it's about the aesthetics of critical controversies themselves.
The whole night through.
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