Men who work, sleep, and eat alone. Lonely men talking on the phone as if they wish to cling on to something that vibrates through the air and offers a kind of assurance that the other side of the line holds a hint of hope or a latent promise of salvation. Men who dream of a life they don’t know nothing about and start building homes with their own hands, or sit alone to have breakfast, or get out of their cars in the middle of the road just to spend some time looking at a deserted, immense, beautiful landscape. Rick Alverson, the man from Richmond, Virginia, United States, class of 1971, makes beautiful, somewhat sad films. At times, they are immersed in a sort of ‘70s spirit, as if, for example, the disappointed, skeptical, and merciful tone from Two Lane Blacktop (Monte Hellman, 1971: a porous yet insistent reference) was imposed on his films with a deceitful kindness, more like mirror than a fatality. Just as he does in his rock band Spokane, the director seems to explore whatever there is beyond the obligation of success or social climbing. With modesty, tremor, and an mindless love for its characters, Alverson’s films remind us of the possibility of a certain kind of cinema: one whose premise is not to pad the viewers’ backs, but to display the cracks through which you can notice the presence of a nameless void. DO
After every show, a stand-up comedian takes a trip to reunite with her daughter, since they’ve grown apart.
Sean is an Irish evangelist who returns from Afghanistan and befriends Ike, an evangelist who works hard to secure his salvation.
A carpenter of Irish descent finds himself overcome by inexplicable fatigue and tries to regain the spirit of the first US settlers in order to save himself.
Swanson is about to inherit the estate of his dying father. Meanwhile, he spends his days wandering around with his friends. The Comedy taps into a dark fiber of comedy, which still echoes long after the end.