moabitnik

Well, who'd have thunk? Outside the walls of Nazi death camps, even the most awful slaughterers of mankind were loving fathers and family men. With wives who enjoyed growing their azaleas just as much as wearing the jewelry and fur coats of murdered Jews. And kids who played happily beneath the skies filled with smoke from the crematoriums where hundreds of people were incinerated every day.

Unfortunately, this information is neither new nor particularly insightful. It was more than sixty years ago that Hannah Arendt called this "the banality of evil". And while I'm certain there's some drama that could be created from that, that's extactly what the film decides not to do. It simply depicts that banality. In all its dullness and stupidity. For almost two hours.

There's no real story here, no real conflict, not much happening. The camerawork is fine, the acting okay - though Ms. Hüllers rolling John-Wayne-like gait which is supposed to show us that she's a tough, strong-willed woman, seems a tad clownish - but in the end the film is just that: banal. As is the - rather poorly translated - dialog which is at times wildly and laughably anachronistic.

Just about as forgettable as the other Hüller vehicle - "Anatomie d'une chute" - which critics decided to embrace this year, for rather unfathomable reasons.

After an ADHS beginning, "Waves" actually and thankfully manages to settle down some, but unfortunately, that doesn't make the whole thing any better. It's just an overlong artsy-fartsy soap opera that doesn't tell us anything about its strictly one-dimensional characters and can't seem to decide what it's supposed to be about (forgiveness, family, racism, classism, capitalism?). A good-looking but deeply unsatisfying and unsophisticated film.

A desperate attempt to mimic American mafia/gangster movies, this cliché-ridden mess plays as if a Hamburg high-school drama club had decided to stage a re-enactment of Brian De Palma's "Scarface". The non-stop, completely over-the-top profanities are, for the most part, unintentionally funny, the acting is limited to the usual swanky sputtering of threats and cuss-words through heavily gritted teeth, and characterization is virtually non-existent. Boring and predictable, this totally hits rock bottom when a montage set to the dull beats of an excruciatingly crappy German rap song shows Chiko rising to the top of the dope-dealing business, complete with loads of coke sniffing, money counting, drinking from champagne coolers in his own newly-opened restaurant and buying expensive jewelry for his girlfriend (the, sigh, hooker with a heart of gold he "bought" from her pimp) who promptly and happily flings herself into his arms when he shows her the penthouse apartment he got them. What made Faith Akin attach his name to this abysmal turkey remains his secret.