Never Gonna Snow Again

Carrying a massage table and wandering out of mysterious woods, our hero, Zhenia, enters a Polish government building, meets an official in a wood-panelled office, renders him unconscious with a massage/hypnosis and signs his own residence permit. The official has a record player in the office and, as Zhenia leaves, the needle drops of its own accord and music starts.

We are surely in the presence of some magical being, here to do great and/or terrible things, right? Well, not really. All he does is become the house masseur for a gated community of McMansions with unusually tasteful interiors. He seems to be good at his job, even very good, but the only time he does actual magic is back at his drab, tower-block bedsit, and all it is is moving a glass across the table with his mind.

The trick is surely a reference to Tarkovsky's Stalker, in which the stalker's child does the same, and perhaps the point is that Chernobyl, where Zhenia grew up, is an awful real-life version of that earlier film's Zone - an area that looks like ordinary countryside, but is under some kind of mysterious, likely sinister enchantment.

It's all very intriguing, the cast of characters is comically and vividly drawn, both in terms of writing and acting, and visually it's a masterclass, every frame an absolute beaut.

But what's it all for? There's a touch, as another reviewer notes, of Pasolini's Teorema, and of the classic old short story The Distributor. But where those are about the interloper in a community determinedly bringing ruin, Zhenia, by comparison, and the film's writers, seem to lack any clear sense of purpose.

The only point seems to be a letdown: Zhenia, unable to save his mother, who appears to have died of cancer after Chernobyl, realises - particularly when one of his clients also dies of cancer - that he's not going to be able to save anyone here either. But it's not like he tried all that hard and why, anyway, did he make his focus this little enclave of privilege in Poland of all places? Sorry, but if the aim is to say something about the horror and tragedy of an event like Chernobyl, this in no way cuts it.

Maybe the point is more to say that, in the face of the world's traumas, and of serious illnesses like cancer, our modern social-media-driven culture of wellness treatments and candy-coated minimalist interiors is, well, a tad pathetic, precious and, at worst, prone to magical thinking. And, if so, well, OK, but the argument seems obvious to the point of being trite, and the consequences of the wrongheadedness don't hit home hard enough to seem to matter much.

I'm thinking it wasn't all completely thought through, and the result is, for all the brilliant detail, this thing drags terribly as it goes on.

You realise seeing stuff like this the greatness of directors like Kubrick, Lynch, Tarkovsky and Fellini, able to do the stunning visuals, but also marry them with a brilliant story. Elsewhere in the lesser reaches of the arthouse universe, the more common reality is as here: a ton of promise, but ultimate disappointment.