acknowledge it felt like this movie. Enthusiasm and some fear. French cinema is an unpredictable scale features masterpieces from the likes of "Irreversible" or "Queen Margot", and suddenly a sink pompous insult us with titles like "The elusive (or how to escape the Love)" or another delusional delicacy that does not work for absolutely nothing. I understand that a certain sector of the audience between the teeth on edge to certain productions galas, you know, those films with very aesthetic levels of people who drink good wine and cheese takes a long rain-filled streets, or in meadows of Provence. French cinema is the logical child of a well-founded industry but unfortunately chauvinist, a mentality that wants to compete with Hollywood, but it suffers from some air stale in certain products that lame (as always) in a hypothetical French aesthetic. I think you know what I mean.
"From time to beat ..." is a film that (Deo Gratias) does not usually fall into the clichés of French cinema, with a masterful construction and fluid pace. The film works because it relies on characters who work and are easily recognizable in their own miseries. It maintains a commendable capacity between the complaint suburban (hysterical businessmen to support their loneliness through postmodern self-destruction) and the classic beauty (the beautiful interpretations Bach, for instance). Everything is a game of opposites in this film: the hatred of beauty, the father against the mother, the blood onto the music.
And above all, that fabulous feeling of having ridden on a carousel crazy, sweet, histrionic tragically, comically realistic. There is a story printed in the distance (perhaps something of the interpretation of the protagonist, but filling) that seems to prevent the story we remove the eyes, we fall in love with the girls on duty and to suffer in the most violent scenes. This distance is precisely where lies the value of the film, director honesty merely throwing events on the table and shrugged. Not your typical author / potter who tries to manipulate each sharp reaction from the public interest.
"From time to beat ..." is something like the movie that had guided Houllebecq on a good day (except, of course, the almost non-existent sexually explicit loading the tape), and although it has some bugs (what precipitated the epilogue, for example), the overall package is more remarkable. Not only is it a cynical movie, rogue and fun (three adjectives that scarce lately on the charts) but also has an outstanding advantage: In a time when independent film in Europe seems to be configured the absence of solid frames and developed to the advantage of the absence and narrative vacuum ( Haneke, for example), "From time to beat ..." risks with dozens of items, dozens of stories that take place naturally, dozens of well-brushed characters used to prevent just one minute of boredom. Highly recommended, both for friends of European independent film to outsiders passing in front of the room.
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