Planetary Disaster. In Cannes, a new film by Jim Jarmusch
"The Dead Don't Die" is born of rebellion, lined with doubt and powerlessness, the ironic homage made by Jarmusch himself. A black soup for his fans and an unpleasant surprise for fans of horror movies.
The creator of "Truposz", "Mystery Train", "Night on Earth", master of postmodern narrative - returns to the topic of disappointment, death, ghostly reality, which can not be escaped except by destroying it. By the way, he made a not very brilliant comedy with & nbsp; a clearly political message, striking & Trb's America, wrapped up in a rather kitschy form of horror about the & nbsp; of the grave rising from the & nbsp; Wanderers in the Jarmusch barren land will lack in this film of finesse, poetic lightness. More entertained viewers will feel simply cheated.
Jarmusch's heroes are, as always, the weirdos who live in & nbsp; this time a small, sleepy little town, which by no means resembles the mythical promised land. More like a Twin Peaks or burial ground with a funeral home on a main street, a deserted, gaping void, a dead bar in the heart of the repulsive land named in the movie Centerville by no accident. A monotonous, depopulated town with an army of suspended in a vacuum of losers & nbsp; a circle repeating the same phrases looks just as hopeless and unattractive as the gray, apocalyptic suburb of the legendary Memphis, Denver or New York, where a confrontation of ideal ideas with real & nb & nb ideas ends for them banally, which is very painful.
Centerville is a quintessence of everything that Jarmusch hates: a habitat of drunkards, hipster, racists. One of them, played by Steve Buscemi, wears a red cap with the slogan of Trump's presidential campaign "Let's make America great again". Peering into the & nbsp; eyes of a black neighbor, he complains that "coffee is too black". The only dog in this company is called Rumsfeld - from the name of a Republican party activist, US Secretary of Defense in the cabinet of President George W. Bush responsible for the war in Iraq.
But the director's most naïve hatred flows in the direction of young pop culture audiences, which the author "Unlike paradise" tries to compromise in all ways, hinting at how primitive and shallow it is. There are thick allusions to the cult of "Star Wars", science fiction stories about aliens are ridiculed, the mysterious scenery of thrillers ("Nosferatu", maybe even "Psychosis") is recalled. Most negative references, of course, relate to George Romer's "Night of the Living Dead," a classic 1968 genre cinema entry that brought zombies to the living rooms. And & nbsp; Jarmusch carefully repeats the convention of this film, gently modifying it in the direction of the unfortunately not too revealing, postmodern metaphor of the fall of Western civilization of the early 21st century.
The dead in Jarmusch's film arise from the graves not because they want it, but as a result of global warming and the change in the speed of Earth's movement around its axis. Naturally, this is a joke, no one expects the director to logically explain supernatural phenomena, but Jarmusch does it in his gloomy way, winking at the viewer, sending signals that the game is being played simultaneously at a different, higher level.
Mocking, ironically, ridiculing, drawing full of handfuls of the infantile atmosphere of horrors about rising from the graves of dead people who sowed panic and terror among disoriented, seemingly only defenseless people - Jarmusch writes his own America (modern civilization) dies under the pressure of dark forces: mindlessly consuming consumption, materialism, self-propelled chaos (this is what the zombies symbolize).
The dubious quality of the fun lies in the fact that the unhappiness of Jarmusch's insane outsiders, known for his work with & nbsp; much more nostalgic overtones, drifts over time and & nbsp; Loners, poets with a crystal romantic soul, mystics familiar with eastern martial arts. Bill Murray playing a retired police officer resembles the aged seducer Don Johnston of & nbsp; Broken Flowers. Adam Driver, his helper, is associated with & nbsp; receiving everything with stoic calm city bus driver from & nbsp; the movie "Paterson." Moving like a mechanical doll, Tilda Swinton in the role of an eccentric Scot dealing with death of a coroner is the grotesque incarnation of Eve, a tortured martyr of love with & nbsp; "Only lovers will survive."
In a slightly different configuration and in a much more absurd costume, all three of them become shoulder in & nbsp; shoulder in & nbsp; "The Dead Don't Die" to fight with & nbsp; zombies. Axes, samurai swords, mechanical weapons for a long time and consistently smash the heads of the undead (the only way to get rid of them). Funny isn't it?
Unlike dozens of films devoted to living dead, Jarmusch does not build tension with the help of increasingly vampiric, bloody images of deadly plague penetrating the door and windows to threatened homes. Only on the meta-question: "how will it all end" - in the existential-philosophical sense, of course. Even the actors allow themselves during the action to have biting comments on the director (named Jim), what they actually do in the movie & nbsp; scenes that were not & nbsp; the script they read. This illustrates the sense of this undertaking - unexpectedly, surprisingly similar to what also recently expressed Jagoda Szelc in her debut "The Tower. Broad daylight".
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