I don't know how well this - or the other four - work in a gallery, surrounded by other paraphernalia of the art and a concept. I suppose, the art is all in walking between objects and piecing together a reflection that is directly related to the way they enabled you to pace your mind. This is very much a work of art, and I have railed against that in others of my posts, art in the sterile sense of a system that solely exists to organize eccentricity. Dreary stuff.
But as a film? It has some flow and rhythm, but at the level where it's supposed to have sense - and I don't mean 'sense' as a substitute for desktop logic, the other sense that is life - all of it is puerile and self-important at best.
Please, let this not be just about maleness being swallowed by a mysterious womanhood (sea - tunnel - crawlspace filled with a doughy substance). Please, let the male drive not be represented by a mindless repetitive motor race. Reading a bit on the concept of these films, it seems to be that way.
I am willing to cut it some slack, hoping this was only the lowest level of a cosmology that is expanded in future installments.
But so far, stick with Talk to Her. This is all vaginal folds with none of that film's dance into soul.
