Sir,
I write with growing dismay regarding your recent critical enthusiasm for the so-called new film genre, Arthouse-Action. If this term is unfamiliar, allow me to clarify: it is an unholy marriage of cinema’s two most incompatible instincts,the contemplative sigh of the arthouse film and the explosive grunt of the action thriller.
The result is exactly what one might expect from such a union: aesthetic confusion, emotional incoherence, and a deeply irritating two hours spent watching people whisper about love and childhood trauma in the middle of a car chase.
The Longueurs,those slow, meditative stretches that once defined the arthouse tradition,are now routinely interrupted by inexplicable gunfire. Just as one begins to engage with the silent despair of a man peeling an orange in real time, someone drives a motorcycle through a stained glass window. This does not deepen the narrative. It merely distracts.
Conversely, the action,when it arrives,is rendered impotent by indulgent soliloquies. One cannot enjoy a simple rooftop shootout anymore without the assassin pausing to quote Rilke at length, or discuss the philosophical implications of his job. I saw one poor actor hesitate mid-punch to recall a scent he remembered from 1983. The target escaped. So did my patience.
If one seeks gunplay and spectacle, let us have it. If one desires long tracking shots of a man walking slowly through fog, fair enough. But let us not combine the two.
In short, Arthouse-Action pleases no one. It is too loud for the brooding aesthete and far too moody for the thrill-seeker. Each side is ruined by the other. It is like trying to eat a full cooked breakfast while base jumping,possible, perhaps, but unpleasant for all involved and likely to end in trouble.
Yours in bewilderment,
Gerald B. Pinn
Wembley-on-Sea
