Delta

Reminiscent of Rodrigo Plá’s The Desert Within in its exploration of the biblical forces of punishment stirred against a transgressive relationship between a brother and sister, Delta is a sparse and shattering film.

It begins with the silent return of Mihail (Félix Lajkó). We aren’t told where he’s been or for how long – indeed, for the first five minutes of the film we’re denied a glimpse of his face. After that, director Kornél Mundruczó will return to Mihail’s impassive features in close up again and again, looking for some crack in this rock-like exterior that will offer us access to whatever lies beneath. But he never finds one.

Mihail has returned to his mother (Lili Monori) who owns a bar in which the locals radiate sullen hostility towards this exotic outsider. And none more so than the mother’s lover (Sándor Gáspár), a man who remains unnamed – an avatar of anger, vengeance and jealousy. That jealousy is directed at Mihail’s connection with Fauna (Orsolya Tóth), a sister close to him in age but one whom he appears never to have met. The two of them move to an island in the middle of a river where, in another echo of The Desert Within, they set about building a home for themselves away from prying eyes.

In isolation, Mihail and Fauna drift inexorably closer. These are raw and tender performances from Lajkó and Tóth. Tóth is a striking creature – fragile and frightened, skin pulled taut over a fleshless body, she looks like a concentration camp survivor. Lajkó is burdened by an inexpressible weight. His is a terse, reactive performance, but one which is never less than magnetic.

There are moments of poetry in Mundruczó’s direction: a slow-motion swarm of mourners on boats at sunset; landscapes that evoke impressionist paintings; and one shot of flowers on beer glasses that has something profound and magical to say about the fragility of love. But this is a film suffused in venality, intolerance and hatred.

There’s an inevitability to Fauna’s fate at the hands of her stepfather that seems not just cruel but crass. And the director treats the film’s climax with a sense of helpless sadness rather than the shock and outrage it deserves. When it really matters, Mundruczó’s first instinct is aesthetic rather than emotive. But if that strips the film of a measure of moral authority, it only adds to the feeling of hollow nihilism that stays with you long after the closing credits.

Matt Bochenski

Anticipation:

Declared ‘the best film in Cannes’ by in-the-know critics when it screened there last year.

Enjoyment:

The disturbing subject matter is made more palatable by gorgeous photography and wonderful performances.

In Retrospect:

There’s something that doesn’t quite sit right about Mundruczó’s emotional impassivity.