danybur
Joined Dec 2020
Welcome to the new profile
Our updates are still in development. While the previous version of the profile is no longer accessible, we're actively working on improvements, and some of the missing features will be returning soon! Stay tuned for their return. In the meantime, the Ratings Analysis is still available on our iOS and Android apps, found on the profile page. To view your Rating Distribution(s) by Year and Genre, please refer to our new Help guide.
Badges3
To learn how to earn badges, go to the badges help page.
Ratings306
danybur's rating
Reviews304
danybur's rating
Summary
The director Charlotte Wells offers us a morose autobiographical story where point of view, subtlety and dead times combine against her intention to convey the protagonist's nostalgia for a lost father and paradise and the inevitability of not having understood him on time. A film where the tensions between child and adult perspectives, between naivety and understanding, between experience and loss are only latent.
Review
A woman recalls vacationing with her father at a Turkish spa when she was 11 years old.
Aftersun is an unfortunate conjunction of four topics widely covered by fiction: the autobiographical, the point of view, the subtlety and dead times.
When a creator or creator faces a story with autobiographical elements, there is always the risk of falling into narcissism, when the memories invoked and especially the way of exposing them, are only interesting for the one who writes or films them and the nostalgia they generate is not produce resonance with the reader/spectator. Not everyone is Annie Ernaux, Elena Ferrante or Woody Allen or Steven Spielberg or even Joanna Hogg, to go to a more related style. And Charlotte Wells clearly isn't.
With respect to the point of view, the director and screenwriter of this debut film narrates from the perpective of an adult who rescues her memories as a child, but maintaining a nostalgic and cut-out look as a child and perhaps filling in some gaps related to the reality of a loving father, very young but hiding a malaise and whom he had not seen for a long time; a discomfort that does not take long to emerge on the surface of a placid coexistence. These tensions between child and adult perspectives, between naivety and understanding, between experience and loss can always be interesting. But this is not the case. Perhaps the strobe lights of the adult Sophie dancing represent that fragmented rescue of the past where tensions do not consolidate. Aftersun. A succession of vignettes about a more or less placid everyday life is not enough (such as applying sunscreen or post-sunscreen, the Aftersun of the title).
And it is the point of view and the self-imposed clipping that are also linked to subtlety and idle times. There are innumerable examples of subtle stories with dead times, but at the same time powerful. But this is not the case. The succession of placid vignettes of that stay in the hotel in the 90s, seasoned with the inevitable home videos, try to rescue a lost paradise with weak ominous shadows that immerse the viewer in a slow and at times frankly soporific story.
Frankie Corio naturally composes a charming girl Sophie and Paul Mescal (the handsome beach attendant in The Dark Daughter) at 26 perhaps looks too young for the young father who nevertheless composes sensitively.
The director Charlotte Wells offers us a morose autobiographical story where point of view, subtlety and dead times combine against her intention to convey the protagonist's nostalgia for a lost father and paradise and the inevitability of not having understood him on time. A film where the tensions between child and adult perspectives, between naivety and understanding, between experience and loss are only latent.
Review
A woman recalls vacationing with her father at a Turkish spa when she was 11 years old.
Aftersun is an unfortunate conjunction of four topics widely covered by fiction: the autobiographical, the point of view, the subtlety and dead times.
When a creator or creator faces a story with autobiographical elements, there is always the risk of falling into narcissism, when the memories invoked and especially the way of exposing them, are only interesting for the one who writes or films them and the nostalgia they generate is not produce resonance with the reader/spectator. Not everyone is Annie Ernaux, Elena Ferrante or Woody Allen or Steven Spielberg or even Joanna Hogg, to go to a more related style. And Charlotte Wells clearly isn't.
With respect to the point of view, the director and screenwriter of this debut film narrates from the perpective of an adult who rescues her memories as a child, but maintaining a nostalgic and cut-out look as a child and perhaps filling in some gaps related to the reality of a loving father, very young but hiding a malaise and whom he had not seen for a long time; a discomfort that does not take long to emerge on the surface of a placid coexistence. These tensions between child and adult perspectives, between naivety and understanding, between experience and loss can always be interesting. But this is not the case. Perhaps the strobe lights of the adult Sophie dancing represent that fragmented rescue of the past where tensions do not consolidate. Aftersun. A succession of vignettes about a more or less placid everyday life is not enough (such as applying sunscreen or post-sunscreen, the Aftersun of the title).
And it is the point of view and the self-imposed clipping that are also linked to subtlety and idle times. There are innumerable examples of subtle stories with dead times, but at the same time powerful. But this is not the case. The succession of placid vignettes of that stay in the hotel in the 90s, seasoned with the inevitable home videos, try to rescue a lost paradise with weak ominous shadows that immerse the viewer in a slow and at times frankly soporific story.
Frankie Corio naturally composes a charming girl Sophie and Paul Mescal (the handsome beach attendant in The Dark Daughter) at 26 perhaps looks too young for the young father who nevertheless composes sensitively.
Summary
A very Austrian thriller that goes from black humor to moments of enormous violence and others that border on terror, with a charismatic protagonist who reactivates her dark facets. An interesting look at the genesis of certain adult criminal behaviors resulting from impunity.
Review
Brünhilde Blum (the very German Anna Maria Mühe) is the owner of a funeral home in a tourist town in the Austrian Tyrol. After the death of her policeman's husband in an alleged accident, the widow begins a relentless search for those she considers guilty.
Several common topics in Central European police officers reappear in this thriller: trafficking in women, pornography, powerful businessmen linked to tourist interests, police corruption, lodges.
But the strength of the series is its protagonist: Blum does not follow the "correct" path to clarify the death of her husband, but one that reactivates dark facets that were already part of her, with an attitude that is also related to someone accustomed to dealing with with corpses. Brünhilde is an investigative force and an amateur and for this reason she progresses somewhat stumbling (and with few concessions from the script), but always with enormous audacity, in a very Austrian story that goes from black humor to moments of enormous violence and others. Bordering on terror. And all with the beautiful winter setting of the Austrian Alps.
On the other hand, and last but not least, the series is an interesting example of the genesis of certain adult criminal behaviors resulting from impunity.
A very Austrian thriller that goes from black humor to moments of enormous violence and others that border on terror, with a charismatic protagonist who reactivates her dark facets. An interesting look at the genesis of certain adult criminal behaviors resulting from impunity.
Review
Brünhilde Blum (the very German Anna Maria Mühe) is the owner of a funeral home in a tourist town in the Austrian Tyrol. After the death of her policeman's husband in an alleged accident, the widow begins a relentless search for those she considers guilty.
Several common topics in Central European police officers reappear in this thriller: trafficking in women, pornography, powerful businessmen linked to tourist interests, police corruption, lodges.
But the strength of the series is its protagonist: Blum does not follow the "correct" path to clarify the death of her husband, but one that reactivates dark facets that were already part of her, with an attitude that is also related to someone accustomed to dealing with with corpses. Brünhilde is an investigative force and an amateur and for this reason she progresses somewhat stumbling (and with few concessions from the script), but always with enormous audacity, in a very Austrian story that goes from black humor to moments of enormous violence and others. Bordering on terror. And all with the beautiful winter setting of the Austrian Alps.
On the other hand, and last but not least, the series is an interesting example of the genesis of certain adult criminal behaviors resulting from impunity.
Summary
Unclassifiable and cinematographic Danish series that combines the fantastic with neo-noir, thriller and drama.
The best of the series may not be its story but the enigmatic nature of its young protagonist and, above all, the incredible and hypnotic atmospheres that it creates, with a staging that bets on moroseness and hieraticism.
Review
It is very difficult to make a plot synopsis and a typification of this unclassifiable and cinematographic series of the Danish Nicolas Winding Refn ("nfr").
We could start by saying that it is the story of Miu, a girl without a family, bought by a madame from a brothel so that she uses certain supposed powers that she has in her favor. From there, Miu will go through other scenarios, linking up with characters and communities of the criminal underworld of Copenhagen, with human trafficking and drug trafficking included, in a course at times Tarantinesque. It is also the story of a pact of gratitude that Miu will seek to honor and a story about mothers, daughters and affiliations.
On the other hand, along with an immigrant universe that includes Balkan and Chinese characters, the native Danes are represented by a very particular aristocratic family.
Miu (an impenetrable Angela Bundalovic) is a scrawny heroine, with an enigmatic identity that is difficult to determine. When I say identity, I mean the broad meaning of the term (origin, essence); the uncertainty about it creates mystery around the main character and is one of the strengths of the series.
As for the genre, the fantastic and dreamlike is combined with the neo-noir thriller and drama.
But the main thing about this miniseries is not so much its story as the incredible climates it achieves, with a staging that bets on moroseness and hieraticism: full of extremely slow circular panning and panoramas of scenes illuminated in red or neon blue, fixed shots , sequence shots and electronic music by Cliff Martínez, Peter Peter, Peter Kyed and Julian Winding that is reminiscent of Tangerine Dream; images and cartoons that refer to the Italian giallo, to David Lynch and a little to V for Vendetta.
Unclassifiable and cinematographic Danish series that combines the fantastic with neo-noir, thriller and drama.
The best of the series may not be its story but the enigmatic nature of its young protagonist and, above all, the incredible and hypnotic atmospheres that it creates, with a staging that bets on moroseness and hieraticism.
Review
It is very difficult to make a plot synopsis and a typification of this unclassifiable and cinematographic series of the Danish Nicolas Winding Refn ("nfr").
We could start by saying that it is the story of Miu, a girl without a family, bought by a madame from a brothel so that she uses certain supposed powers that she has in her favor. From there, Miu will go through other scenarios, linking up with characters and communities of the criminal underworld of Copenhagen, with human trafficking and drug trafficking included, in a course at times Tarantinesque. It is also the story of a pact of gratitude that Miu will seek to honor and a story about mothers, daughters and affiliations.
On the other hand, along with an immigrant universe that includes Balkan and Chinese characters, the native Danes are represented by a very particular aristocratic family.
Miu (an impenetrable Angela Bundalovic) is a scrawny heroine, with an enigmatic identity that is difficult to determine. When I say identity, I mean the broad meaning of the term (origin, essence); the uncertainty about it creates mystery around the main character and is one of the strengths of the series.
As for the genre, the fantastic and dreamlike is combined with the neo-noir thriller and drama.
But the main thing about this miniseries is not so much its story as the incredible climates it achieves, with a staging that bets on moroseness and hieraticism: full of extremely slow circular panning and panoramas of scenes illuminated in red or neon blue, fixed shots , sequence shots and electronic music by Cliff Martínez, Peter Peter, Peter Kyed and Julian Winding that is reminiscent of Tangerine Dream; images and cartoons that refer to the Italian giallo, to David Lynch and a little to V for Vendetta.