A disinterest in conventional genre elements generally works to this Hungarian import's advantage, as its allegorical plot is bolstered by a stunning blend of audio and visual ingenuity. Antal and Pados drench their film in grimy greens, decaying blacks, and a dearth of natural illumination - shot on location on Budapest's subway platforms and tracks, the film is awash in flickering, eye-searing fluorescent lights. Yet theirs is not a cinema vérité aesthetic; rather, their inventively disorienting, trancelike cinematography turns the train station into a surrealistic cocoon populated by glassy-eyed malcontents divorced from normal Earthly sensations like sunlight and wind. "This just proves my point. You are a product of your environment," someone says early on about Bulcsú's growing instability, yet the point also applies to Kontroll itself, which defines itself via its claustrophobic, secluded, and progressively more fantastic setting. Set to Neo's antsy electronic score - which skips and stutters with manic intensity, reflecting Bulcsú's jittery, fraying state of mind - Antal's film is like a disquieting techno lullaby in which the serene and the manic, the real and the unreal, contentedly coexist.
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