Story Movie
Sam Lowry is quite content with his life. He works as a petty clerk and agrees to put up with an unsettled life against the will of his mother, who is a member of the system's elite. But suddenly he meets the girl he keeps seeing in his dreams. To meet her again, he decides to change jobs.
Review 4K Movie
The science fiction writers who predicted a totalitarian Earth were right. It is too late to listen to them now; the time has come to reap the rotten fruits of a future marked by control, consumerism, and paperwork. Unscrupulous leaders, drunk with unlimited power, happily mock slaves below the level of some ministry, whether they are office plankton wasting their days at computers from the 1950s or peasants stinking of fuel oil and petroleum. But why mock? The future promised “Happiness we're all in it together!” — and here's proof: a smart toaster that spits out bread! More — a smart alarm clock with blinds, a phone on plugs! Happiness... No? Tomorrow, tomorrow will come someday, then we'll relax. In the meantime, we have old songs and dreams, where you, a winged, non-balding superhero, bravely rescue a girl from the iron clutches of a huge shogun. Fortunately, dreams don't require filling out form 27B-6 yet. Sam Laurie is happy with this life. If only his mother would stop pestering him with social gatherings and covering up her external decrepitude with useless operations, then life would be perfect. He knows that his office, the size of a train station toilet, and his rope table are no better than a smoke-filled office and a tube monitor, in which you are reflected as an eared donkey.
But what can you do when a fairy tale dream becomes reality? When a blonde with green eyes looks at you not from a poster of some ancient noir, not from an air cell in a phantasmagorical dream, but in reality? The tribune of a bureaucratic worker and a queue a few centimeters away, but between them a gap of thousands of kilometers, as if between heaven and hell. Status and a badge on his breast pocket allow him to send the girl on a dog race to the offices to get a stamp for the stamp. Colossal towers of waste paper boxes haunted Sam in his sweet imagination, and now they have literally come out. Jill is drowning in a swamp of dictatorial empire buildings because one idiot decided to kill an insect. But she exists, she has grown into a tangible entity from a damp epic, and a simple-minded clerk is ready to become a real playboy for her sake. And she's not the downtrodden daughter of her mother's friend with braces on her teeth. What are you waiting for?! Go after her truck before the unwashed children of the workers, in between playing war and cops and robbers, twist the wheels off your jalopy!
The lost unnamed state is far from the land of Oz, where good people live in beautiful houses against the backdrop of an ecological utopia. The real world is a hole where Christmas never comes. The country, hung with garlands, hardly decorates the urban citadel of tall anthills. Posters promising a brave new world bashfully cover the bombed-out wastelands. It is a refuge for neurotics and paranoids tormented by paperwork. They try to smile politely, but they look like maniacs who want to stab you in the heart with a wrench. Their hands mechanically reach for the receipt to sign when their spouse, turned into a cocoon, is taken away to be tortured in the cooling tower, and the secretary routinely records his torment in the protocol. Then you realize that being a petty clerk is a privilege, not a bondage. Waking up not as a tramp in a bathtub in the middle of a wall without wallpaper and a hole in the ceiling is also a privilege. You were fed the assertion that there is nothing worse than a broken pipe in the house; that the terrorist attacks that have been going on for over a decade were carried out by a simple shoemaker. And now he's been arrested, feeling electric shocks from a sadistic little brat, while the explosions in restaurants continue.
Who cares! No one but that bitch cares about Battle Tuttle. No mouth, no problem. The check tape will stamp “delete” on Jill Layton's black-and-white photo, and the oracles of modern Metropolis will put another white folder on the table. No need to run around the ministries. The rest will realize that the initiative is punishable. And Robert De Niro, unfortunately, even if he were Travis Bickle three times over or had a license for fair justice, cannot save everyone on his own. It's time for Sam to shed his wings and land on the ashes of Fritz Lang's legendary story and save his Maria by becoming a particularly dangerous gangster with a scattering of articles in his file. Diving headfirst into the abyss isn't so pleasant, is it? It's unpleasant and difficult to realize that the world can be a cesspool of shit wrapped in evening tailcoats and coffins with rhinestones. But love will survive, endure, and help swallow the bitter pill. As long as there is love, it is worth fighting the devilishly terrifying machine of bureaucracy. But you have to hurry, because feelings can be reduced to numbers. Then even a pit for an integral will seem like a milestone of desire. No way!
1984 has passed. There is no Oceania, Oceania does not change political enemies like gloves, and the bitter taste of Victory gin is unlikely to bring tears to anyone's eyes. But people have not switched to Ford T cars, they are not grown in bottles, and porn is not shown in cinemas. Dieselpunk has arrived—the purgatory of civilization, the middle ground between two dystopias. Only a small cone on a toy guillotine will determine which way the pendulum of history will swing. But neither an animalistic, instinctive existence nor total control over everything, down to emotions, is necessary for ordinary people. Terry Gilliam believes in humanity. That is why he shoots the grotesque, technocratic society of Brazil, a lair of office rats drowning in forms. A satire on the image of victorious reporting absurdity, on the importance of sterile documents, on Kafka to the millionth degree. Brazil is an incredibly stifling film in terms of perception: it is difficult to put yourself in the shoes of the protagonist Jonathan Pryce, to turn around as a prisoner of a skyscraper prison surrounded by the ghosts of Orwell and Huxley, and to understand the impossibility of escaping to freedom. To understand that this is no longer Monty Python: even Michael Palin is powerless.
Perhaps Brazil is a tragicomedy and a parody because what happens in it is not entirely a sad picture of the present, hinting at the chance for change. It is better to see a futuristic catechism on screen, in the pavilions of a British film studio, than in a window. Gilliam's talent allowed him to combine dozens of references to the classics in a single picture, from Potemkin's staircase to the letter M on the facade of the Ministry of Information and Harvey Laim (almost like the hero of The Third Man). All this to create a frightening example of a world that is frantically ridiculous. Only if it appears in reality, there will be no laughing matter. After all, this is not The Life of Brian or The Holy Grail, but something tangible and not overly fantastical. A shoe on the head as a fashion statement and police officers singing a rhapsody instead of catching criminals, rubbing their eyes — all of this was taken from real life. Like Sam Laurie, dreaming of a tick in a web of drainpipes, so similar to any onlooker from the street. He doesn't want awards, fame, or to be like Spider-Man Harry Tuttle. He is satisfied with what the institution of marriage offers him, and with being far away from dusty high-tech. But isn't it too late when psychopathic rulers who engage in bureaucratic terror prevail, fantasy becomes a precious diamond, and the rights to necrophilia and well-being are no longer available?
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