Quiet and pensive, there aren't many other movies in which so little happens yet which can still claim to carry such grim airs. This is rather dark as it follows artist Luca, spiraling ever further into the furthest recesses of his own depressed mind - and this is further cemented with the notable pervasive shadow that defines much of the film, cloaking much of the surroundings in darkness beyond the immediate focus. Factor in the somber yet hushed themes composed by Tobias Lilja (lovely as they are), the incredibly soft-spoken timbre adopted by star Géza Röhrig, and the subdued tone with which any additional inclusions present (overlaid text representing phone messages, the digitized voices of phone calls), and 'Muse' all but rivals 'A quiet place' in terms of emphatically downplaying audio. Beyond this foundation the picture becomes harder to succinctly put into words, but if nothing else is true then it keeps one engaged just to see what will become of Luca.
At large the feature comports itself simply as an austere, restrained drama, but it's also fair to say that there are notes of psychological horror dancing on the edges as the protagonist plainly struggles to step outside himself. To some extent seen in Rupert Everett's physical manifestation of Luca's inner demons (with great makeup work to that end), and expressed with more tense and/or haunting chords in Lilja's score, Röhrig himself pulls most of the weight in the movie to realize this bleak ambience. His performance is rich with pained, broken nuance that's as bluntly aggravating as watching someone else go through such an experience, and as piercing as every such experience we've gone through ourselves. The very production design and art direction, pointedly untidy in what we see of them, feeds into the dreariness, not least as Röhrig is almost completely alone in front of the camera for most of the length. The result of all this is a viewing experience that never achieves any particular height of emotional investment, but which is disquieting on a level both very fragile, and very personal.
My congratulations to filmmaker Candida Brady, for her direction is impeccable, and her screenplay is gently spellbinding in a way I wouldn't have anticipated. 'Muse' takes its time to gather steam, and for no small amount of the runtime it's hard not to wonder why we committed to watching in the first place. Yet the tale is irrepressibly gloomy, and only ever more so: this isn't a film that drives home a spike, nor digs in its claws; rather, it comes off more like a hand that's enclosed around a butterfly not so much as to harm it, but absolutely enough to keep it trapped. It's a title of utmost subtlety, finesse, and delicacy, flitting so closely to Nothing that I can only imagine it may automatically repel many viewers. Given the space it plays in it would be all too easy for one false move to upset the entire production, but I think Brady pulled it off with gratifying elegance. This is without question a movie for the patient and open-minded viewer, and even then it may be polarizing. Yet if nothing I've described has turned you off, maybe this is right up your alley. I, for one, quite enjoy 'Muse,' and it earns a solid thumbs-up.
At large the feature comports itself simply as an austere, restrained drama, but it's also fair to say that there are notes of psychological horror dancing on the edges as the protagonist plainly struggles to step outside himself. To some extent seen in Rupert Everett's physical manifestation of Luca's inner demons (with great makeup work to that end), and expressed with more tense and/or haunting chords in Lilja's score, Röhrig himself pulls most of the weight in the movie to realize this bleak ambience. His performance is rich with pained, broken nuance that's as bluntly aggravating as watching someone else go through such an experience, and as piercing as every such experience we've gone through ourselves. The very production design and art direction, pointedly untidy in what we see of them, feeds into the dreariness, not least as Röhrig is almost completely alone in front of the camera for most of the length. The result of all this is a viewing experience that never achieves any particular height of emotional investment, but which is disquieting on a level both very fragile, and very personal.
My congratulations to filmmaker Candida Brady, for her direction is impeccable, and her screenplay is gently spellbinding in a way I wouldn't have anticipated. 'Muse' takes its time to gather steam, and for no small amount of the runtime it's hard not to wonder why we committed to watching in the first place. Yet the tale is irrepressibly gloomy, and only ever more so: this isn't a film that drives home a spike, nor digs in its claws; rather, it comes off more like a hand that's enclosed around a butterfly not so much as to harm it, but absolutely enough to keep it trapped. It's a title of utmost subtlety, finesse, and delicacy, flitting so closely to Nothing that I can only imagine it may automatically repel many viewers. Given the space it plays in it would be all too easy for one false move to upset the entire production, but I think Brady pulled it off with gratifying elegance. This is without question a movie for the patient and open-minded viewer, and even then it may be polarizing. Yet if nothing I've described has turned you off, maybe this is right up your alley. I, for one, quite enjoy 'Muse,' and it earns a solid thumbs-up.
