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Few films manage to provoke as much frustration as I sequestrati di Altona (1962), directed by Vittorio De Sica. Adapted from a play by Jean-Paul Sartre, the film promised philosophical depth and aesthetic rigor, but the result is a painful experience marked by confused direction, sluggish pacing, and uninspired performances.

The first impression is already disastrous: the opening credits, endless and accompanied by repetitive chords, are almost unbearable. Instead of creating atmosphere, they alienate the viewer. The sense of boredom sets in early, and nothing that follows is able to reverse it. The narrative, confined to claustrophobic spaces, could have worked as an exercise in cinematic dramaturgy - after all, Sidney Lumet showed in 12 Angry Men (1957) how spatial limitation can become a virtue. Here, however, the dialogues feel hollow, repetitive, and devoid of dramatic strength, dragging the story into monotony.

The editing, by Manuel del Campo and Adriana Novelli, does not help. On the contrary, it reinforces the sluggishness, failing to create rhythm or tension. De Sica's direction, surprisingly careless, is the most painful aspect. It is hard to believe that the same filmmaker who gave us Bicycle Thieves was behind this work. Even worse: he was awarded the David di Donatello in 1963 for this direction, which often feels amateurish. The most glaring example is the climactic scaffolding scene: a moment that should be tragic and powerful ends up looking technically sloppy, devoid of emotion and visual impact.

And the performances? Nothing redeems the production. Not even Fredric March, a seasoned actor of proven talent, manages to escape the prevailing apathy. The cast, trapped by arid dialogue and poorly developed characters, delivers lackluster work throughout.

I sequestrati di Altona is, ultimately, a waste of strong names and of a play by Sartre. A tedious film, lacking vigor and soul, that will hardly find defenders outside the most indulgent cinephile circles. For those seeking real cinema - proof that four walls can contain intensity and great art - the recommendation is unequivocal: forget this disaster and turn instead to Lumet's 12 Angry Men. The difference between the two films is the same as that between living theater and an empty echo.

A western starring Pierce Brosnan and Samuel L. Jackson should be, at the very least, promising. Add to that the arid and majestic landscapes of Montana, and you have the recipe for a memorable film. However, The Unholy Trinity (2024), directed by Richard Gray, manages the feat of bringing all these elements together only to deliver a cinematic experience that borders on the unbearable.

The premise is a classic of the genre: in a dusty 1880s town, the young Henry Broadway (Brandon Lessard) arrives seeking revenge for his father's death. His arrival disturbs the fragile peace maintained by Sheriff Gabriel Dove (Brosnan) while also attracting the attention of the enigmatic and ruthless St. Christopher (Jackson), a man willing to do anything to find gold buried in the town. The stage is set for an explosive confrontation, but the fuse is never truly lit.

The central problem, which demolishes the film's entire structure, is its script, which is absolute garbage. The narrative drags on in a sleep-inducing crawl, with dialogue that ranges from cliché to irrelevant. The tension that should drive the story is nonexistent. Potentially interesting characters, like Brosnan's sheriff and Jackson's villain, are reduced to shallow figures whose motivations are as superficial as the dust covering the town's streets. The sense of boredom is so overwhelming that the urge to walk out of the theater becomes a constant companion.

To make matters worse, the score, composed by Marco Beltrami and Tristan Beltrami, is auditory torture. Instead of building atmosphere or underscoring the emotion of the scenes, the music is intrusive, dissonant, and, at times, simply irritating. It not only fails to complement the action but actively detracts from the experience, turning moments that could have had some weight into a senseless cacophony.

So, is there any saving grace? Yes, and it's a shame it's in service of such a weak film. The sole merit of The Unholy Trinity lies in its stunning locations. Filmed in places like the Yellowstone Film Ranch and the historic Old Montana Prison, the film captures the wild beauty and raw authenticity of the Old West. The landscapes are a visual treat, a magnificent canvas waiting for a story that never arrives to fill it.

In the end, The Unholy Trinity is an exercise in patience that not even the beautiful Montana landscapes can salvage. It is proof that not even a star-studded cast can rescue a film from a bad script and lifeless direction. A missed opportunity that is best left buried, just like the gold its characters are so desperately seeking.