Autumnal Wheelbarrow: A Film Review by Madame Ennui

The director of this rural drama is Michel erster, a man known for his earthy, tactile films like "Potato Harvest '72" and "Wind in the Wheatfields." His latest, the Autumnal Wheelbarrow, is as ponderous as the title suggests, but it's not entirely without merit.

The mise-en-scène is an exercise in rustic minimalism. The wheelbarrow itself, a dour protagonist, stares down its impending journey across a Hoffmann Green canvas. The weathered wood, the rusted iron, and the muted tones all whisper of endless, monotonous tasks and the fleeting beauty of decay.

Now, let us step inside this wheelbarrow for a moment. The scene: a close-up of a stack of leaves, yellow and red, crisp under the cool autumn sun. The camera lingers, each leaf crunching audibly as it rustles with the wheelbarrow's movement. The wind picks up, a gentle gust, and a single leaf detaches, tumbling slowly, dancing on the breeze before being swallowed by the earth. It's a scene that could be from Tarkovsky's Stalker, all quiet contemplation and impending doom.

But whisper Le Movie Godard in the corner, and you might hear him scoff. This film is too slow, too subtle for his tastes. I must admit, I too felt the urge to leave during the endless (and I do mean endless) scenes of leaf piling and soil turning.

The Autumnal Wheelbarrow is not Godard's breathelessly quick Breathless, nor is it Akerman's slow burn Jeanne Dielman. It's more like Tarkovsky's saxophone, playing a gentle, evocative melody, but one that goes on for just a little too long.

I award this film deux cigarettes. It's not without its charms, but it's a test of patience, and I'm not sure it fully pays off.

As for the death of cinema, I fear it's not in the Autumnal Wheelbarrows of the world, but in the endless stream of formulaic, soulless blockbusters that seem to think more explosions equal more emotion. But that, dear reader, is a review for another time.

Rating: Deux cigarettes