oOgiandujaOo_and_Eddy_Merckx
Joined Aug 2002
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oOgiandujaOo_and_Eddy_Merckx's rating
Reviews464
oOgiandujaOo_and_Eddy_Merckx's rating
The Universal Theory is a brooding and cerebral tale, blending mystery, science fiction, noir, and mad love. While it may disappoint genre fans seeking a pure science fiction experience, it excels as a haunting meditation on identity and desire. Rather than exploring scientific concepts in depth, it uses the aesthetic of science fiction to evoke pensive moods and profound existential questions. Though one of many recent multiverse movies, The Universal Theory stands apart, offering a unique and deeply emotional take on the concept.
Cultural touchpoints abound in reviews of the film, and rightfully so. Hitchcock, Truffaut, Lynch, Carol Reed, Dürrenmatt, and Maya Deren have all been referenced, and these comparisons feel apt. More surgically, I'd add Dead Mountaineer's Hotel (Grigori Kromanov's 1979 film and the 1970 novel by the Strugatsky Brothers) and Julien Duvivier's L'affaire Maurizius (1954). Dead Mountaineer's Hotel, another alpine-set sci-fi noir, seems like the film's clearest ancestor, while the paranoia, investigation, and shadows of Swiss-set L'affaire Maurizius resonate here too. And yet, for all its influences, The Universal Theory feels startlingly original, much like Alien-a film that, despite being a swag bag of looted stories and motifs, became its own iconic entity.
The story takes place in the 1950s, when a mysterious physics conference is arranged at a remote, snow-set Swiss hotel. Physics Professor Dr. Stratten and his doctoral student Johannes Leinert travel there, to find out more about the conference. However, the scientific gathering quickly fades into the background as strange occurrences and the enigmatic Karin capture Johannes' attention. Karin, with her jazz-inflected rendition of Couperin's Les Barricades Mystérieuses, embodies the film's central mystery: beautiful and endlessly elusive.
The Universal Theory uses its science fiction framework not for scientific exploration but to probe the fragility of human existence. There is a pervasive sense that something is slightly "off" about reality. A brilliant career reduced to mediocrity by an inexplicable obstacle. Profound declarations of love rebuffed by those we believed were our soulmates. Sliding-doors moments subtly alter the trajectories of lives: in one reality, a professor has ties to the Soviets; in another, he leans west. These questions linger: Could we be anyone? Are our identities largely circumstantial?
This is not a film for those who need clear answers or a neatly tied narrative. Like Couperin's piece, The Universal Theory is intricate and ambiguous, inviting viewers to reflect rather than resolve. Its particular cocktail of genres is niche, and its appeal may not be universal-as evidenced by the bemused silence of my fellow audience members as the credits rolled. Yet, I found myself deeply moved, clapping alone, the film's strange, shadowed beauty resonating long after the lights came back on.
The Universal Theory is a niche masterpiece of strangeness, shadows, and love-sickness. For those willing to embrace its haunting mystery, it offers an unforgettable cinematic experience.
Cultural touchpoints abound in reviews of the film, and rightfully so. Hitchcock, Truffaut, Lynch, Carol Reed, Dürrenmatt, and Maya Deren have all been referenced, and these comparisons feel apt. More surgically, I'd add Dead Mountaineer's Hotel (Grigori Kromanov's 1979 film and the 1970 novel by the Strugatsky Brothers) and Julien Duvivier's L'affaire Maurizius (1954). Dead Mountaineer's Hotel, another alpine-set sci-fi noir, seems like the film's clearest ancestor, while the paranoia, investigation, and shadows of Swiss-set L'affaire Maurizius resonate here too. And yet, for all its influences, The Universal Theory feels startlingly original, much like Alien-a film that, despite being a swag bag of looted stories and motifs, became its own iconic entity.
The story takes place in the 1950s, when a mysterious physics conference is arranged at a remote, snow-set Swiss hotel. Physics Professor Dr. Stratten and his doctoral student Johannes Leinert travel there, to find out more about the conference. However, the scientific gathering quickly fades into the background as strange occurrences and the enigmatic Karin capture Johannes' attention. Karin, with her jazz-inflected rendition of Couperin's Les Barricades Mystérieuses, embodies the film's central mystery: beautiful and endlessly elusive.
The Universal Theory uses its science fiction framework not for scientific exploration but to probe the fragility of human existence. There is a pervasive sense that something is slightly "off" about reality. A brilliant career reduced to mediocrity by an inexplicable obstacle. Profound declarations of love rebuffed by those we believed were our soulmates. Sliding-doors moments subtly alter the trajectories of lives: in one reality, a professor has ties to the Soviets; in another, he leans west. These questions linger: Could we be anyone? Are our identities largely circumstantial?
This is not a film for those who need clear answers or a neatly tied narrative. Like Couperin's piece, The Universal Theory is intricate and ambiguous, inviting viewers to reflect rather than resolve. Its particular cocktail of genres is niche, and its appeal may not be universal-as evidenced by the bemused silence of my fellow audience members as the credits rolled. Yet, I found myself deeply moved, clapping alone, the film's strange, shadowed beauty resonating long after the lights came back on.
The Universal Theory is a niche masterpiece of strangeness, shadows, and love-sickness. For those willing to embrace its haunting mystery, it offers an unforgettable cinematic experience.
Flux Gourmet delves into the eccentric world of "sonic catering," a fictional performance art where noises generated from food preparation are transformed into experimental soundscapes. Under the leadership of Elle, a domineering provocateur who often disregards the medium's culinary roots, a trio of artists navigates the power dynamics of an artistic residency at an institute devoted to this peculiar craft. The film aspires to the wry humour of early Peter Greenaway, satirising the bureaucracy of arts funding, but it lacks his trademark wit and charm. Another misstep is its reliance on scatological humour, culminating in an onstage proctological examination that detracts from its intellectual appeal.
One of the film's aims seems to be to explore the grievances of many women who were historically forced into the role of preparing all the food for their families. The "gender cooking gap"-the significant difference in the number of meals prepared by women compared to men-has all but been eliminated in developed economies. In Italy, for example, men now prepare slightly more meals than women. However, this gap remains a massive issue in developing economies. Elle embodies the tension in modern Western feminism, where genuine progress has lapsed into performativity: she theatrically destroys a long out-of-print misogynist cookbook-a hollow gesture that fights a battle already won-while hypocritically relegating domestic labour to her partner, another woman, during their relationship. While this meta-feminist commentary is intriguing, it is undermined by the film's lapses into the excesses of the male gaze, with its portrayal of women unrealistically acquiescing to fetishistic demands-scenarios that provoke anxiety more than empowerment.
Strickland's fascination with fetishism and scatology, central to The Duke of Burgundy (2014), resurfaces here with little evolution. While Flux Gourmet offers a provocative concept and bold satire, its indulgent excesses-scatological humour and unrealistic portrayals of gender-ultimately overshadow its thematic ambitions.
One of the film's aims seems to be to explore the grievances of many women who were historically forced into the role of preparing all the food for their families. The "gender cooking gap"-the significant difference in the number of meals prepared by women compared to men-has all but been eliminated in developed economies. In Italy, for example, men now prepare slightly more meals than women. However, this gap remains a massive issue in developing economies. Elle embodies the tension in modern Western feminism, where genuine progress has lapsed into performativity: she theatrically destroys a long out-of-print misogynist cookbook-a hollow gesture that fights a battle already won-while hypocritically relegating domestic labour to her partner, another woman, during their relationship. While this meta-feminist commentary is intriguing, it is undermined by the film's lapses into the excesses of the male gaze, with its portrayal of women unrealistically acquiescing to fetishistic demands-scenarios that provoke anxiety more than empowerment.
Strickland's fascination with fetishism and scatology, central to The Duke of Burgundy (2014), resurfaces here with little evolution. While Flux Gourmet offers a provocative concept and bold satire, its indulgent excesses-scatological humour and unrealistic portrayals of gender-ultimately overshadow its thematic ambitions.