Hungarian filmmaker Béla Tarr is back with a slow-moving black-and-white work of art that will dazzle the faithful and bore the stuffing out of everyone else. Like Tarr's earlier films Sátántangó and Werckmeister Harmonies, The Man From London wallows in endless, precisely choreographed takes and fluid camera movements that are as gorgeous to observe as they are technically admirable. Whether or not they serve the story is a different question.
Based on a novel by George Simenon, The Man From London tells the tale of Maloin (Miroslav Krobot), a stoic railroad worker who, one foggy night, witnesses a murder over a suitcase full of money. Maloin steals the money and tragedy ensues. As Maloin's miserable wife, Tilda Swinton has one of the more expressive roles in the movie. With a few exceptions, Tarr is just as happy simply observing the back of actor's heads as they walk down cobblestone streets.
Some may argue that the complex movements and spatial relations, along with the extreme shadows and rough-hewn textures they reveal, shed light on the characters' emotional realities, but I found the pleasures of this drowsy film noir limited to externalities: dreamlike vistas of wet brick walls and the ghostly shine of street lamps through the fog.
