Mother, Couch

I must say at the outset that I wanted to like this film, because symbolic, metaphorical, low-budget, chamber-drama-like works are very close to my heart. Unfortunately, Niclas Larsson (who is responsible for such great works as... well, yeah) hasn't the faintest idea how to direct a film or write a script, because the end result is so fake, incoherent, wannabe-deep, boring and so frustratingly roundabout that anything the film was trying to say (not that there haven't been a million films made about grief work and letting go...) is completely meaningless because it just babbles, stammers, and then urinates under itself.

I have no idea how Larsson was able to blackmail these stars into appearing in this botched film experiment, perhaps kidnapping their child or poisoning them with the venom of a rare species of South American snake for which only he has an antidote. In any case, it is certain that "Mother, Couch" will not ennoble anyone's CV. But one thing must be acknowledged: it's a perfect film for snobs, who are ready to project everything and its opposite into the infertile, barren nothingness at any time, if it makes them feel that they are more than the average cinema-goer, despite their mediocre intellect and awful taste.