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Not that I got out to see that much—just nine features, down from the usual 12-15, which ongoing problems with an arthroscopic shoulder (yeah, blame it on the rehab) were at least partly responsible for. But partly too it was the films themselves, more terra incognita selections than in any of the last five or six festival years, like one roulette opportunity after another. Which in a way is how it should be, since where’s the adventure in placing all your bets on critically recommended product? But, I mean, c’mon—Henrik Ruben Genz as best director for Terribly Happy? One of the more arbitrarily sutured-together narratives I’ve seen in a while, like cut-rate Coen brothers set in the Danish bogs, with a mystical two-headed moon calf bellowing in the muck—a “supernatural” twist thrown in for no good reason that ultimately has to be abandoned since nobody can figure out what the hell to do with the metaphor. Or those ominous, chortling townsfolk who keep insinuating … well, what exactly? Like the ghosts of the 80s come back to haunt—except I thought we’d rid ourselves of these dreary cryptic signifiers many moons ago.
