Nicolas Winding Refn
The Neon Demon

After watching this film, I immediately thought of an adequate visual representation of a Gesaffelstein album, Aleph, which I reviewed right around here and described as a perverted fashion techno. I may have explained the plot of The Neon Demon. It is no coincidence that we find a scene where the (sensational) soundtrack quite blatantly mimics the French producer, a forgivable gesture, as I pointed out not by chance how Aleph screamed its need for a visual expression. And here it is. Maybe Refn liked that record; is the result a bewildering glitter orgy? Yes, but only to a certain extent. The Neon Demon does not participate in emotional-sensorial involvement; it expresses itself but is not complicit, just as a cold showcase suggests (ultimately), not showing bold, repellent, and perverse scenes in a vector philosophy, removing all morbid elements. In another context, we would have faced a splatter horror, but it is truly difficult to categorize the film in this genre because the director also excludes the more conventional coordinates, recovering sacred monsters like Argento's Suspiria (though the citations are endless) in the division of color and artificial light but completely denying thriller development, except for the ultra-symbolic closure. So there are two cases: either we are not faced with a horror, or the horror as we know it is outdated and needs something new.

The film recounts the irreconcilable contrast between divine beauty and pagan humanity, the ideal of glossy universes, angelic maidens, and flights of fancy diverted towards a mystical techno delirium, supernatural electro, bestial digital... the organic drive explodes, also uncovering the cauldron of esotericism, but it's all modern, expressed with lights and slowed 303 lines. All because of the triangular neon fashion monolith, which frankly reminds one of the triforce from The Legend of Zelda (does Nintendo know?), that from celestial innocence turns blood red and represents the passage of the film to the second part. The scene is much less hermetic than it seems, but Elle Fanning's performance provokes deep disturbances and increases its strength: it is not total abandonment to hedonism, nor even the use of makeup in its capacity to influence a face, she becomes a whole other person, truly amazing work on facial expressions. The annihilation of an identity is what terrifies us most, since it is the only true anchor in a parallactic world headed for destruction. Identity, which in the deviated and deviant universe of fashion, no one has; she is surrounded by clitoral zombies and a super up-to-date Lady Bathory, all ready to do anything to assimilate that soul to absorb its strength. Sexual relations with one's own reflection and synths blasted into one's ears. In the middle, totally interchangeable male characters. It will end very badly. The ending, tragic, apocalyptic, but stylish, is open to interpretation. What I see is an aseptic edict of modern art: there is nothing more to invent, we can only devour the best of the past and build a new present, partial, tender satisfaction playing with corpses. The future is unpredictable.