Reality

‘Reality’ here is the name of a girl who one morning watches her dad gut a freshly shot boar; its innards contain a VHS tape. Denis hosts some cookery show in a full-body mouse costume. Jason is one of the dopes lensing this boring miasma; he dreams of making a movie called Waves in which people’s brains are blown up by TV sets, because television makes people stupid; imagine his dismay on entering a cinema where Waves runs in front of a hate-filled-bordering-on-indifferent audience!
Not since Oshima Nagisa’s zoophile extravaganza Max mon amour (1986) has anybody come this close to the spirit, spite and spunk of Buñuel’s late works (The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, 1972; The Phantom of Liberty, 1974), albeit with a touch of late Lewis (be that Jerry or Herschell Gordon), and a hard-edged formal rigor that makes Reality sometimes look blast-frozen and sometimes carved in marble.

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