Damnation

Title: Damnation
Release Date: 1988
Director: Béla Tarr

Bela Tarr continues to absolutely floor me with every single shot he produces. Just days after viewing the masterpiece known as Werckmeister Harmonies, I’m subject to a previous film by him, Damnation. This film, when juxtaposed with Werckmeister Harmonies, stands shoulder to shoulder beside it.

The film is filled with symbolic imagery, drab landscapes and stark black and white cinematography. The shots are just as satisfying as they are prudent, the camera drifting off into the shallow depths of the muddy fields it portrays. The story is simple. A man falls in love with a married singer and attempts to lure the husband away allowing him more time with the women. A simple story delving into the deepest questions of human existence, an existential journey through the rainy fields of our linear plane of existence. The film portrays life’s banalities, it stalks and questions the very existence of our lives and this insipid paradigm we thrive in.

The entire span of the film is unbearably hopeless, prolonged shots futher expand upon the emptiness the protoganist trudges through. It’s almost as if the film reveals the last days of earth, the end of time and final moments of his somber life. The continues shots of torrential rainfall and wild packs of lost dogs further push hope and it’s futility upon the viewer. The final scene in the film is painstakingly brilliant in every possible way. I don’t want to elaborate, but it ties in with several of the conversations had throughout the film. Pay attention. The dog a story, the man a story, the rain a story, all disintegrating into some abysmal void never to be seen again. All stories eventually decay and disintegrate, all heroes eventually die.

Symbolism, whether Bella Tarr realizes it or not, is heavily present in his film. It’s ignorant to claim the opening scene, the dogs, the rain, the fog, the dancing and subtle calamity that the characters are subject to is all for nothing, for pure cinematic effect. Damnation is yet another brilliant work of art, another cinematic masterpiece that somehow slipped by me unnoticed. See this film by yourself, without any distractions or outside influences or preconceptions. It’s a personal voyage through desolation and reclusive resurrection, a personal abandonment of entitlement and self worth. Your story, in the end, will soon enough dissipate.

94%

Werckmeister Harmonies

Title: Werckmeister Harmonies
Release Date: 2000
Director: Béla Tarr

There are certain movies that, after your initial viewing, feel that they’ve been specifically tailored for you. Movies that have that instant feeling of personalization, a direct extension of your mentality and individuality. Werckmeister Harmonies is a direct extension of myself, a sequel to my life, or a prequel, and an extremely grim and frostbitten adventure into the decadence of a small town isolated from civilization and terrorized by an oversized white whale. Béla Tarr has created one of the most spellbinding and emancipated films I’ve ever seen in my entire life, a film that transcends a simple cinematic adventure and mentally and physically latches onto you as a person, tugging and tearing at your emotions and mind as it breezes past. Simply breezes.

The cinematography is absolutely fantastic, breaking all cinematic conventions and tossing the viewer back into his own mind, allowing the viewer to indulge themselves in the moment. The film throws many ideas at the viewer, yet gives them plenty of time to reflect on each and every idea. Long tracking shots setting the distant background to simply stare at, lost inside your own thoughts and mind, crawling around as you scuffle for some sort of humane supposition to the hopelessness and unbearable loneliness of the small town.

There are so many scenes that were absolutely fantastic I can’t even begin to go into any details. The first and most prominent scene being the first shot, or the first ten minutes rather, where János is demonstrating the universe to the townsfolk. The very moment he began to discuss the eclipse my heart stopped, the music began, the shot a standstill, that very moment captured and held dangling above our heads. One of the most beautiful and pristine cinematic moments I have ever witnessed.

Another shot appearing towards the end when the rioters are tearing apart the hospital. The entire scene is completely devoid of dialogue, the violent sounds of wood and human flesh colliding into a disdainful tone of harmonic rage. The hospital is ripped to shreds in a mere five minutes, the rioters continue their menacing rampage setting fires and beating the sick and crippled without mercy. Suddenly, a seemingly ordinary door is opened. Beyond the door stands an elderly man, completely nude and helplessly void of portent. Transfixed upon the old man, the crowd ceases their rampage and solemnly leaves the building. The morning after the town is restored to order, the circus music ceases to entrance the townsfolk, the whale exposed as a mere fallacy, the harmony of remembrance reverberating throughout the town halls and chapels.

Without a doubt one of the most absorbing, transcendent, delicately crafted films I’ve seen in quite some time. As difficult as it may be for some to endure such a prolonged exposure to pure atmosphere, your patience will surely be paid off as the film comes to a close. The cinematic direction and ceaseless plundering of personal reflection and question are unbearably unique and flawlessly executed. As unnecessary as some shots may seem, they are more than likely the most important. The shot highlighting the crowds rage, the camera gliding through the crowd as it catches glimpses of the faces of the hypnotized, the two minute walking scene between János and his uncle, the seemingly unnecessary time spent on characters faces and actions are all completely full of emotion and thought. Not one moment is wasted or revoked or overstayed, not one emotion is withheld or abandoned.

96%

Seul Contre Tous

Title: Seul contre tous (I Stand Alone)
Release Date: 1998
Director: Gaspar Noé

Wow. What we have here is gritty, surreal French film highlighting the mental decadence of a decaying, lifeless butcher destined for emptiness. The entire movie is undeniably hollow, glimpses of hope and joy are no where to be found and the fleeting desperation our protagonist latches onto leads him to question the morality and righteousness of society. Is society right in its ways? Who is to decide what is considered taboo and acceptable? Happiness is just as subjective and variable as the weather, the unprecedented urges and preconceptions we have on love and joy are fleeting and personal, why is that we are bound by invisible rules and regulations? Is it possible that we’re so afraid to stray from the confines of a moral and social adherence that we’re feared into conformity?

The film is highly reminiscent of Taxi Driver, both characters feel driven by a dominant sexual compulsion and undeniable hatred for society. The difference lies in the type of angst they endure. While Taxi Driver is more about the grueling futility of resisting fantasies and the inescapable inevitability of insanity, I Stand Alone is about the smothered rage that slowly builds from loneliness and solitude, the dwindling moments the character latches onto slowly burning away as the film highlights these final moments. I Stand Alone is told mainly in first person narrative, the protagonist lashing out against society, his family, the world, love, anything and everything that is wrong with today’s society. The only way to escape this pain is to leave it, once and for all.

Extremely violent and gritty, this film accentuates the intensity and raw power of emotion and solitude. A life without love or hope, the bleakness of emotional turmoil to the point of breaking, the unwillingness for society to accept standards outside of our preconceived notions and comfort, this film portrays life on the other side. Life is a selfish act.

85%

Funny Games (2008)

Title: Funny Games
Release Date: 2008
Director: Michael Haneke

I discuss moments of the film that would be considered spoilers.  Therefore, this is your only warning.

I can’t say I enjoyed this film.  I can’t say I didn’t want to turn it off.  I can’t say I’ve felt such mental agony during a movie in quite some time.  What I can say, however, is Michael Haneke has crafted one of the most unnerving films I’ve seen in the past few years.  Beyond the critics brazen ignorance and unnecessary bashing lies a film with such ferocity and subtly I can’t quite fathom how an individual can see this film and not feel horrible.  The sheer brilliance in both script and direction is unquestionably relentless, and that may be the very point that turns people away from it.  What most viewers don’t understand, however, is you are NOT supposed to walk away from this film with a joyful hop to your step.  You are most certainly not, in any way, expected to have enjoyed this or trotted away anticipating a sequel.  The film moves in with its message swiftly and effortlessly yet verocious enough to absolutely destroy your senseless facade of security.

The film portrays a family attending a lake house for the weekend, a wife and husband along with their only son driving down winding and twisting roads, a boat hitched to the back and a few classical albums for their enjoyment.  Ironic and delusional, it seems.  Shortly after arriving at their lake house, the couple is greeted by two of the most patient, polite, yet disobediant males they’ve seemingly ever encountered.  Outfitted in white golf clothes and gloves, the two begin to take control of the family and their home.  From this point on, the games have begun.  The two swiftly transition the family from relaxation to mental torture, a shroud of helplessness draped over their eyes as they are subject to twelve hours of unbearable horror.  There is no room for exhalation or relaxation.  There is no time spent on inane dialogue or questionable ‘rescue’ attempts.  There is simply hopelessness, desperation, a tainted stench of salvation gawking at the family from above, no cages or bounds in sight.  Nothing but mental decedance.

This is not a film filled to the brim with gore and blood, hateful vows and detestful, squeemish murders or rapes.  The film strips the flash and glamour of American horror and portrays the raw terror of human demise.  There is nothing enjoyable about suffering and pain, there is absolutely nothing funny about humans being tortured in the most despicable of ways.  Why do we enjoy it so much?  Why are the Saw films and Hostel films so popular in todays culture?  Do we honestly enjoy watching people die?  Think about it.  Michael Haneke knows it, the two men in Funny Games know it, and they both certainly show it.  The leading boy shatters the fourth wall several times during the film.  Meaning, he actually acknowledges the audience, questioning their motives for watching the film or what our expectations should be as it progresses.  It further questions the viewer beyond simply providing the visuals.  Why?

The film brings in hope only twice during its entire span.  The first being near the beginning, when the father and son are preparing the boat to go sailing.  The camera briefly notes a knife, sitting on the boat deck before a rope pulls it into the innards.  Nothing more is noted about the knife until the very end, when we see the two men leading Ann down into the boat.  At this point, the viewer is supposed to be thinking, “Oh! The knife is there!  She’s going to kill them both and sail off into the sunset!”.  As the two men are rowing and chatting, Ann picks up the knife and starts cutting the ropes tied around her wrists.  But wait!  The two notice her, casually poke fun at her and throw the knife into the water.  All hope diminished.  The second instance is during the prayer scene when Ann blows one of the men away with the nearby shotgun.  At this point, the audience has their one wish, a violent catharsis of deliverance.  Gruesome and bloody, just like we Americans like it.  As the remaining boy searches around for the remote control, the audience is bewildered, dumbstruck by the one violent act the director finally gives us.  As the boy fumbles with the remote, the film stops.  Frozen in a single moment.  Then, suddenly, rewinds.  Gone was the shotgun homicide, gone was the audiences one fleeting moment of joy and redemption, rewound in time and blemished by the strange revision of that concurrent moment.  Back in time, the boy stops her from grabbing the shotgun, the audience either flustered or confused, the realization that their one chance for atonement revoked and carelessly tossed aside.  This act of rewinding has confused critics and viewers across the nation, screams of “sell-out” and “stupidity” echoing the forums and newspapers of the reviewing world.  This is, in fact, exactly what Haneke wants.  The louder you scream, the more you prove his point.  We are a society compulsively obsessed with relentless violence and heinous acts of human deprivation and torture.  Is that truly enjoyable?

This film shatters the bounds of convention, straying from the confines of what defines a horror or drama or thriller.  A perpetual assualt on your tragic sense of nobility and inane sense of uniqueness, a putrid display of human aesthetics diminishing one moment at a time, Funny Games does not allow sunlight to break through its bleak atmosphere.  There is no cushion or joy to be found, and it certainly should feel no remorse for the grotesque acts it portrays.  Michael Haneke should be lauded by Americans everywhere, but instead, it seems to be plagued by the ignorance and self-indulgence of your everyday typical American.  Short on story, heavy on gore seems to be the winning formula in todays market.  Watch Funny Games without your preconceptions, without your taboo nature and sense of appeasement, alone, without worry of prejudice or a social lashing.  Don’t allow your mental inadequacies to deter you from this film, it’s more than worth watching.

88%

Le Samouraï

Title: Le Samouraï
Release Date: 1967
Director: Jean-Pierre Melville

Jean-Pierre Melville took what I absolutely love about music and transformed it into an astounding film, minimalistic and droning yet astonishingly exhilarating.  Le Samourai is the story of a criminal perfectionist, a humble loner hired by unknown mobsters to silence anyone who might be kicking up trouble.  He lives his life in solitude, avoiding relationships and social interaction like a disease, only speaking when necessary and appearing when vital.  Cloaked in a tan rain coat and mysterious top hat, he coordinates his murders with such precision and technicality it seems the plausibility of persecution or capture is null.  A very sleek, independent, intelligent hitman living his life in the shadow of obscurity.  This is exactly what I love so much about the film.  Instead of the flashy one liners and intense interrogation scenes, we’re presented with the simplicity of isolation and acceptance of whatever fate you seem destined to.

The style of the film absolutely floors me.  The first ten minutes are completely void of dialogue, the reliance on cinematography and acting is put forth for the viewer to entangle themselves in.  The minimalistic style being quite obvious and perfect for the type of film that Jean-Pierre was attempting to portray.  The shots are long and daunting, irrefutable evidence of the helpless lifestyle our protagonist is experiencing.  His home filled with simple, flat colors and a lack of any sort of personality present further stresses the fact of how lonely and hopeless he is.  No family, no real friends, the reality of life swirling around like an avoidable tornado.  Though, he doesn’t seem to mind.  That’s were his true nature shines without ever actually spoon feeding the information to us.  He lives the life of a modern day samurai, discipline and responsibility outshining the minuscule obligations of societies pathetic regulations.  His morals and wisdom surpass anything that modern society would hold in high esteem, unfathomable by anyone but himself.  This, in turn, leads him down the barren path he treads throughout the entire film.

As the story unravels and the characters are further delved into, the story suddenly strays from its linear storyline with the poetic finale, the provocative hindrance of society leading the protagonist towards the inevitable.  I won’t go into any detail of the ending, but it’s absolutely perfect in every possible way.  It further solidifies his purpose in life, his mental decadence subtly shredding down to the final moments of his well being.  At first, it comes without any real purpose.  Almost suddenly and unexpectedly it seems, no real purpose or drive.  As the film replays itself in your mind, on fast forward and repeat, it begins to make perfect sense.  The unexpected morphs into the completely obvious, it’s just the characters apathetic behavior controls what emotions and thoughts the viewer is allowed to witness.

Overall, an excellent film worthy of at least one viewing.  While I cannot recommend this to your average crime/drama fanatic, I can say that anyone interested in top-notch french cinema should make a valiant effort to see this.  Fantastic cinematography, superb acting, a tight script, and an underrated director mesh together seamlessly to craft one of histories greatest foreign crime films.

86%

Ancestral: Avowal

A hazy forest swallowed in fog and rain, chains of dreary isolation tugging at your sleeve as the silent indulgence of an emotional cataract collapses on top of you.  Tears tugging at your eyes, the vast forest a glimpse of beauty and joy, a facade of happiness to cower behind.  Ancestral is your overwhelming sense of relief as you begin to realize why you’re here.  Ancestral is the sound of desolate roads and wrong turns, misguiding your dreams and deceiving your intuition, a shattering and mending of the silent transition between reality and illusions.  Avowal, Ancestrals second album, is a defiant enigma that penetrates its listener on a personal basis.  This is an album of subtle simplicity, an album that meekly wanders around the forest softly whispering its elegy to whomever chooses to listen.  It doesn’t seek restitution or attention or glory.  It’s simply there, a humble catharsis trotting aimlessly along.

Avowal is more than a simple depressive black metal release.  Yes, it does contain all of your essential ingredients, it contains your mournful riffing and desolate vocals, the gloomy atmosphere and depressive aesthetics dragging your mind into a pool of hatred and loneliness.  The entire album feels so subtle, so alone and deprived of importance or hope.   It feels like I’m standing in a desert, dehydrated and alone, staring up at the dark rain clouds as they slowly float by.  The question is there, but the answer is irrelevant.  Asking will only defeat the purpose, the relentless pounding of your undeniable arrogance is torn out and beaten ruthlessly.  This is an album that questions who we are in the most subtle ways possible.  A painting hanging in our living rooms, the bleak colors of our lives strewn and tossed about a canvas for you to reflect upon, to dream upon, cry upon.  Ugliness and pain showcased in the broom closet of our minds, simply procured to peak our individual curiosity.  I can’t begin to put into words the amount of emotion laced into my thoughts as I began to listen to this.  The albums bleeding melodies encapsulated my mind, comforting my faults and caressing my emptiness in the most humble of ways.  The album is depressing in nature, but only when it’s truly embraced can it cause unbearable amounts of self-reflective tragedy and pain.  Your mental playground ripped to pieces, a wastebasket of crumpled dreams and shredded thoughts glazed over by a hooded figure slowly wandering off.

The production is very good for a self release, yet is below studio quality for obvious reasons.  Music like this does not require top notch production and should not be subject to it.  The cold, distant aura evoked by this is absolutely perfect in every way.  The droning guitars and plodding drums compliment the pessimistic and haunting vocals as they entwine together in a collage of contempt and daunting shadows.  Everything meshes together eloquently and concisely, the individual instruments colliding flawlessly like old friends reuniting.  The music heavily relies on atmosphere and succeeds in every aspect, not one moment wasted on useless silence or stale melodies.  As fruitful as it all may seem, the flawless nature seems to be its one glaring flaw.  The music itself doesn’t contain anything new or innovative, rather taking average black metal and adding a structureless and personal basis to the album.  All three tracks were created to be a soundtrack for thought, the railroads of our emotional trains and highways of our indecisive minds.  A flat, clean mirror placed before your face, delicately requesting that you take a look deeper.  You lose yourself in your own eyes, lose your train of thought to the derailment of Avowal, lose your breath to the drowning decadence of time.

Avowal is an extremely personal album, a soundtrack to the constant waves of long forgotten memories and hidden thoughts obscured by the trials of life.  It doesn’t thrust itself on the listener, it doesn’t force us to reexamine our lives or those around us, it simply slips by unnoticed.  It’s like witnessing something beautiful that simply astounds you, something that falls from the sky without reason or cause.  The rising sun in the dawn sky, shadowy figures of passing birds dot the skyline with their graceful movement and timeless sense of prosperity.  The reuniting of a lost child and his mother, the seamless transition between stressful worry and overwhelming joy reflecting the dreamless hope of an everlasting love.  The snapshots of life we are presented with to cherish, the moments of time we wish we could rewind to replay in the distant corners of our minds.  This is the soundtrack to your deepest feelings of solitude and joy, your deepest feelings of worthlessness and pride that sustain themselves just above your conscious.  Hiding away from ever being seen, this album brings them to light.  A lingering expression of cloned sentiments mirrored for you to view, an empty canvas awaiting your strokes of progression and self mutilation.  The true beauty of your absence glaring back through the shattered realm of a schizophrenic mind.  The true beauty of your life ending one moment at a time.

98%

Thy Light: Suici.De.Pression

Remove society from this world.  Remove every idea, thought, dream, and hope and retain a world left untouched.  Replace the sun with utter darkness, replace sound with silence and emotion with apathy.  Now take this unscathed world and place upon it Paulo, a damp, cold basement, several instruments, and utter solitude.  This is exactly the type of atmosphere Thy Lights second demo evokes on us.  Utter solitude.  This album takes us to the deepest parts of our minds we never thought existed, to doors never noticed, rooms never lit.

This demo is one of the few that I own that can create such an atmosphere that I honestly need human interaction afterwards just to know I’m alive.  The beginning of the demo opens with a beautiful piano passage, a bloodstained door opening inwards revealing a downward spiral of stairs.  The sound of boards creaking and trembling as you begin your descent, the unknown darkness entwines itself around you, grasping and clawing at your body as it drags you inwards.  Sorrow engulfs your mind, your thoughts clouded by endless dreams of desperation and pain.  The piano introduction sets the mood, like a perfect movie trailer it foreshadows what lies ahead instead of presenting the forthcoming material.  Like the calming of ashes after a midnight blaze, the fuzzy reverberation echoes in the darkness as the introduction comes to a close.  A trepidation of senses, an exorcism of aesthetic qualities, the deprivation of hope and meaning.  The second song is magnificently spell bounding and probably the best song of the demo.  A mournful atmosphere only attained through death, a recording of such despair and hopelessness, I cannot understand how this man is still alive. He perfectly conveys his elegy, his cycle of life, the futility of dreams and ineffectiveness of human progression.

Instrumentally, the album is quite simplistic.  Drums are nothing worth noting, simple beats repeated throughout never once overbearing the song or playing too subtle.  The guitar tone is perfect, cold and bleak, melancholic and mournful.  The melodies are beautiful, the solos are haunting and prodigious, and the overwhelming emotion strummed into each note is breathtaking.  The vocals are in a world of their own.  Harrowing shrieks of desperation and grief shaking the very facade you cower behind, your mourning walls collapse.  They are honestly the single greatest part of this demo, absolutely devastating in every aspect.  His hatred and solitude being channeled through his voice into the very depths of your soul, wrapping itself around your heart and thrusting itself inside.  They sound human, not superficial or blatantly altered in anyway.  The production is what you’d expect from an underground black metal artist, but not horrible by any means.  The fuzzy feedback adds to the atmosphere of desolation, as clean production would absolutely destroy it.

A despondent aggregation of isolation and reclusiveness, this demo is beyond words.  It is more than a simple black metal release spawned by children with face paint and black clothes.  It is the story of solitude, the effects of loneliness, and the garnered respect for the minuscule moments of our lives you attain.  When presented with something so dead and cold, you can only look upon yourself and your environment differently, relishing in what little you have in your fleeting aggregation of moments.  This is the demo for those moments.  This is the demo where you realize what life is truly compromised of.   Go on, open the door.

97%

Nyktalgia: Peisithanatos

As a previous reviewer did, I followed in suite, trekking outside my home into the gloomy darkness of the outside world.  I treaded alongside dreary forests and high rising electrical poles, the full moon glooming at my back and casting an eerie shadow before me.  I tearfully crawled up empty fields and hollow forests, the streets empty and houses dim, not a single soul or motor vehicle in sight, all the while the pulsating sound of audible suicide tearing through my veins.  This is Nyktalgias second outing, a depressive masterpiece bound to be praised for years to come.  After being shattered by their debut album, I had high hopes going into their newest offering and came out alive, but just barely.

This is a difficult album to relay with words, as previously noted, as I see it as being schizophrenic.  The first song, and without a doubt one of their best songs, is emotionally straining.  It reminds me of Exitus Letalis, beginning extremely catchy and melodic only to sweep into a much slower riff with the high pitched vocals piercing the bleak atmosphere.  It truly is amazing, yet somehow, one of the most depressing things I’ve ever heard.  Treading alongside the moonlit forest in the early hours of the morning, the sound of Nyktalgia blaring directly into my mind, the hate-filled vocals screeching and ripping at my soul, I truly felt alone.  So desolate and deprived of importance or reason, I somberly walked on without direction or hope.  It didn’t help the situation when the rain began to fall just as Skjeld crawls into the song, his screeching devastation tearing down my quintessential empire.

The reason I’m calling this album schizophrenic is the second song, Nekrolog.  It completely shattered the atmosphere the first song built up to.  Instead of another melancholic and beautiful riff, it opted for a more upbeat, generic black metal riff.  The vocals also shift into a lower growl, not quite death metal but not quite Nyktalgia.  The lower vocal style mixed in with thundering blast beats and a generic riff-driven feel, I felt cheated.  It felt like a failed suicide, like the rope was cut or the water was drained.  Just another filler track lacking any emotional drive or thought-provoking feel the entire ride through.  I believe I forgot it just as it ended.

The third song resembles a mixture of the first two, the bipolar brainchild of depression and hope.  The song begins and I think to myself “Oh boy, here we go again”.  I was already in a bit of a happy mood, and honestly thought about switching over to Mayhem or 1349 just in spite of what I heard out of the second track.  As the song continued on, it progressively improved into the atmosphere I had longed for. Perfect timing as well, just as the vocals kicked in to send a chilling nostalgia through my veins, my melodic catharsis.  The song continues on and on, and after awhile, my mind began to drift.  Not because of boredom, but because of the constant stream of bellowing drums and haunting guitars retaining a mellow atmosphere perfect for dreaming.  I transcended into a cesspool of fragmented hopes and long forgotten dreams, all the while terrorizing vocals screaming at me, my longing to remember kicked back into perspective. Winterhearts fantastic drumming pounding on my skull just as the song closes, another masterpiece suiciding upon impact.

The fourth and final song is more or less the same.  A catchy bass line and harrowing vocals haunting the track throughout its ten minute span.  A satisfying finale to a malignant album, a volatile aggregation of sorrow and grief spewed forth over some of the most devastating vocals ever presented.  The production must be noted, seeing as it’s an enormous improvement over the first album.  Every instrument is clearly heard and retains its individuality throughout the entire album, not one dominant over another.  Skjeld is just as amazing as before, reaching unparalleled screams that reverberate in your mind for days to come.   This truly reaches the pinnacle of the suicidal black metal genre, an isolated plague set forth to harvest happiness and optimism, an album fueled by sorrow and absolute hatred.  Nyktalgia have surpassed all expectations and released yet another beautiful and eloquent album, destroying all that is beaming with joy and happiness in its wake.  Embrace the emptiness and give in to your foreboding demise.  Nyktalgia is calling.

91%

Gris: Il était une forêt…

After being completely spellbound by Niflheim’s Neurasthénie, I was eagerly anticipating the bands second monster, Il était une forêt…  This is, without a doubt, some of the most depressing and soul crushing black metal to ever grace my ears.  It’s not your atmospheric riff-happy black metal a la Peste Noire, but the type of music to drown yourself in.  Enigmatic melody, eloquent in nature, and simply destructive beyond hope.  This truly is an album to wash your soul with.

If you enjoyed anything done by Niflheim, you will surely enjoy this album.  Production is, like the previous reviewer noted, top notch.  Fantastic.  Outstanding.  Everything sounds beautiful and no instrument dominates the mix.   The vocals are absolutely astounding.  They’re a mix between dreadful screaming (or morbid moaning) black metal shrieking, and soft, spoken lyrics.  They are definitely a large part of the music and a high point of the album.  The melodies in this album are precisely what makes it what it is.  They are beautiful, mournful, and poetic without being overly cheesy or drawn out.  To sit in solitude and confine yourself from life and its obligations recreates this album, especially in the first track Il était une forêt… and final track La Dryade.  Both are easily the best songs on this album.  La Dryade is a painful 10 minute epilogue, wrapping up the album and leaving the listener in utter despair and isolation.  It’s purely instrumental, using a piano, a guitar, and a cello.  Somber, to say the least.  Il était une forêt… is a very well composed song.  The vocals for the first two minutes are utterly devastating.  No lyrics, no spoken words, just the vocalist hurling his angst at the unsuspecting listener.  The song doesn’t let up until the first break, where it seems the allow glimpses of hope and happiness to seep in.  Low and behold, it does not.

A fantastic album from start to finish, a true Canadian masterpiece that deserves unabashed praise.  This album, along with their first, requires the listener to devote their attention and emotion to the sound of an emphatic, if ever fleeting, suffering.  Gris definitely has a bright future, as clearly portrayed by their first two studio albums. I only hope they can keep up the fantastic work and continue creating some of the gloomiest despair ever recorded.

92%