I Smell Sex And Candy. Also Rotting Vagina Stuffed With Dirt And Twigs And Left By The Side Of The Highway.
Perfume is directed by Tom Tykwer, a great filmmaker who has been applying poetic interpretations to literal themes for quite some time. The frenetic pacing he established in his breakthrough film Run, Lola, Run is absent here, replaced by a brooding, hypnotic speed that seeks to entrance the viewer with languid poetry. Unfortunately, the thrall of Perfume is often interrupted by bad performances, heavy-handed direction, and over-the-top theatrics. Towards the end of the film, this settles into its grove, and everything fits into a sort of magic realist interpretation, but in the first half, it's quite jarring. Dustin Hoffman, in particular, is violently terrible as faded master perfumer Baldini, with an accent that would shame even the people who do bad Christopher Walken impressions. He bursts every bubble of engrossing enchantment, so out of place it feels like your father is standing in the room while you masturbate over the body of a dead prostitute. Which, incidentally, is the best way to get them ready to be glue.
Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.
Labels: Horrific misogyny.