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The Man of the Labyrinth.
After his debut with The Girl in the Fog, Donato Carrisi returns behind the camera to bring another of his bestsellers to the big screen, The Man of the Labyrinth.
The work boasts two great actors in its cast: the ubiquitous Tony Servillo and the hustler Dustin Hoffman.
Oh fuck off, will you.
The Man of the Labyrinth is a boring and disjointed mess.
It unfolds on two parallel planes, autonomous and independent from each other.
On one side, we have Samanta Andretti, 28 years old. She was 13 when she was kidnapped by the rabbit man and was held captive for 15 years in a labyrinth.
Now Samanta has been freed, she has a broken leg, and is lying in a hospital bed. Next to her is Dr. Green (Dustin Hoffman), a specialist and profiler. His job is to interrogate Samanta so that she might lead them, through her memories, to the kidnapper.
On the other side is Bruno Genko (Tony -cigarette- Servillo), a private investigator at the end of his career who was hired by Samanta's family at the time to find her but failed in the task.
The film shamelessly draws on various clichés, references, and typical thriller-horror imitations. A hodgepodge of rice, endive, and déjà-vu. Donnie Darko (and Inland Empire?) and a ridiculous heart-eyed rabbit-man. A dash of Seven, a sauté of Saw, a concentrate of The Cube, and the dish is served. A cubist puzzle with pieces randomly placed by a talented simpleton. The film doesn't excite, engage, or frighten. Here and there, some fitting sequences timidly surface, but they are shots in the dark.
The writing is rather (very) implausible, not to mention muddled. How the investigation is conducted by Genko, for example **SPOILER i.e., the part where he hears the anonymous phone call, enters a seedy pub, and in two seconds recognizes the voice END SPOILER** not to mention the final plot twist and the mishmash trick-track à la Pulp Fiction.
Dustin Hoffman seems like an angel fallen from the sky. Calm, serene, monotone with the automatic pilot doesn't believe it himself. Occasionally, he puts his hand in his pocket to feel the check they gave him, reassured multiple times it won't bounce.
Servillo, on the other hand, puts in his usual effort. Here he is old, dirty, sweaty, heart-sick, and smokes smokes smokes continuously. But it's Servillo, that is, you see Servillo, not Bruno Genko (it's his limit, often overshadowing the character instead of serving it).
But even if they just do the essentials, they are two great actors. Shall we talk about the supporting roles? Their over-the-top acting, the improbable dialogues? Aspects that reminded me of Dario Argento’s films, where dialogues and acting often emerged disjointed, over (and outside) the lines, indeed.
Well, enough, what else should I tell you?
No, but go see it, it's beautiful.
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