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Rating: This is a random choice among the titles that followed one another in those magical eighteen days of August filled with films in solitude, from now on qmdgdafdpis.
Someone else in my position (and I'm not naming names sotomayor) would have already managed (weeks ago) to review them all, watch just as many, become the president of Liguria, and create sculptures of shredded tobacco in tribute to the moai. So far, I've managed to comment on a couple of reviews.
But do we waste time to know who we are, or to try to hide it? And the sentence ends without a question mark, because I don't want you to read it with that tone of a written question, improvised towards the last words, where the question mark comes unexpectedly like a door opening while you're jerking off. Because it's serious.
No, because everyone knows: it happens that you share your life with someone, and forty years later that someone kills themselves and you realize you didn't know who you had invited into your home. Because it happens that people take sixty years to reveal who they really are, and because it happens that you can be full of candied fruit, but if they ruin your life forever, even the desert becomes a road.
The Fury of a Patient Man is the directorial debut of Arévalo, already imbued with noir mood for his role in Marshland. And here we already don't get it, because even with the minimum details, it seemed to me that I was watching the third/fourth film of a genre director: this Spanish guy (Spain after Thesis can do whatever it wants for me) writes and directs this vivid drama by placing together two characters that seem to represent good and evil when in reality they are anything but oil and water: they mix, they blend, and you can't understand a damn thing anymore.
The dry photography, with a shirt from which the hair sticks out, makes the tension even more arid, supporting a script that's impeccable for the genre, and this combo exudes hot Spain. If there's something that makes the judgment of the film soar high enough to hurl all the stars it deserves at it while trying to hurt it, it's precisely its entrance with shoves into the genre while managing to keep its DNA intact. There's not a smudge of anything else, not a slip-up, not an inaccuracy that one would forgive a young man, forgive in a debut, forgive someone who's trying. Instead, this jerk knows what he's doing, and chooses a broken heart that wants to break free, chooses an Antonio De La Torre (yes, the one who was sleeping with Carolina Bang in the ballad of hate etcetera) who basically kicks your ass; a Curro who, although presented as badass, soon reveals himself to be so naive as to hope that after years in prison, he can return and rebuild a life. And all this game of narrative mechanisms that makes the plot similar to a tunnel, makes The Fury of a Patient Man just a big hit. A big hit where telling you the plot wouldn't be doing you any favors.
Aaaah, qmdgdafdpis.
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