...is what her boyfriend wrote. The exact could be said about this film, which tends to sink into art-house 'quicksand'. A challenge to our ability to adopt suspension of disbelief. A girl comes home to find that her dude has offed himself, so she then dresses up, goes out for a night of debauchery and sex, comes home and hacks up the boyfriend into manageable pieces and then totes him into the woods, where she buries his parts, spins a few times with her arms outstretched like Christ, and dangles her hand into the cool water of a creek. Later she takes her close girlfriend for a vacation to Ibiza, then proceeds to abandon said friend in the desert, and finally fraudulently claims her dead boyfriend's unpublished novel as her own and sells the rights for 100 000 pounds. It starts off fairly annoyingly, but then starts to endear a little (or maybe I was just drunk, as I was enjoying a bottle of excellent Australian red during the movie) but finishes off really deadbeat. No real problem with performances, but the too-low audio while the characters were talking, complicated by mumbled Scottish dialect was contrasted with cranked volume during the score which embodied by far the strangest musical choices for a soundtrack in recent memory. I do like many unusual films like those of David Lynch (as another comment mentioned), but Lynch goes strange with every character and the movie as a whole, so then all's fair for the course of his films. The plot in this movie is somewhat vacuous. If this movie asks us to relate or empathize with the responses of the main character, then there are going to be problems for the typical viewer. Perhaps the film is asking us to ask ourselves what we would do.
Review of Morvern Callar
