The film opens on a water-skiing accident - a girl (Délie) drives a speedboat and pulls a young man (Stan). They are both challenging their own limits when a crash occurs... Stan wakes up from a coma after this serious accident, to find out that genealogists are looking for an individual whose identity corresponds to his. Instead of asking himself questions about this testamentary filiation, he subscribes for Professor Starkov's legacy, and embarks for the country of Las Estrellas... Purging odyssey where intuition and telepathy accelerates the journey in time. Dharma Guns revisits the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice fighting with the tyranny of Time-God...
Reviews
Pretty Good
If the ambition is to provide two hours of instantly forgettable, popcorn-munching escapism, it succeeds.
By the time the dramatic fireworks start popping off, each one feels earned.
The acting is good, and the firecracker script has some excellent ideas.
This film opens with a beautiful scene: a speedboat, steered by a woman, races at high speed over the water. Behind it a water-skier, who suddenly crashes. The man wakes from a coma to discover that genealogists are looking for an individual whose identity matches his.The fable: a young man - poet, scriptwriter and warrior - dies. How do you reconstruct the images in his brain? What do we see in our moment of death? Can the spirit understand the causes of death and clear a path for itself to another life? In what kind of form manifest these final images? Will they dazzle? A feast of lights? An invasion? As memories, hypotheses, assumptions? The magisterial expressiveness of Dharma Guns allows you to experience the impulses of optical nerves and synapses. F.J. Ossang has grafted the film onto the central nervous system, the very place where mental images are born. 'My eyes have drunk,' one hears in this worthy treatment of Antonin Artaud's expectations of cinema. Dharma Guns is constantly airborne, buzzing, pushing its way towards the isle of the dead. A masterpiece that slowly moves before our eyes, in the staggering slow-motion of certainty, into the company of Murnau's Nosferatu and Dreyer's Vampyr.
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