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Remembering the great Béla Tarr (1955-2026)On January 3, 1889 in Turin, Italy, Friedrich Nietzsche stepped out of the doorway of number six, Via Carlo Albert. Not far from him, a cab driver begins whipping his horse. Nietzsche throws his arms around the horse’s neck, sobbing. After this, he lies motionless and silent for two days on a divan. Somewhere in the countryside, the driver of the cab lives with his daughter and the horse. Outside, a windstorm rages. Immaculately photographed in Tarr’s renowned long takes, The Turin Horse is the final statement from a master filmmaker.
Okay, so maybe it doesn’t sound like the makings of a 2.5-hour masterpiece, but that’s Béla Tarr for you. The Hungarian genius’ final film is one of his best, and further evidence that no one makes films like Béla Tarr, though his magic is hard to explain, so I’ll let A.O. Scott of the New York Times give it a whack:
“The rigors of life can grind you down. The rigor of art can have the opposite effect, and The Turin Horse is an example—an exceedingly rare one in contemporary cinema—of how a work that seems built on the denial of pleasure can, through formal discipline, passionate integrity and terrifying seriousness, produce an experience of exaltation. The movie is too beautiful to be described as an ordeal, but it is sufficiently intense and unyielding that when it is over, you may feel, along with awe, a measure of relief. Which may sound like a reason to stay away, but is exactly the opposite.”
All clear now? I’ll try a simpler take: Come see Turin Horse… you’re gonna love it.
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