Missed.
At the Cannes Film Festival, the interpretation prize passed under his nose.
Maybe the Oscars will correct that blunder.
The best actor of the year is a donkey.
No need to look for names: we are talking about a real animal here.
With his gray coat, his Sardinian race, he radiates Skolimowski's new film.
Gossips will say that he flat out crushes his ancestor, Balthazar de Bresson.
His silences are eloquent.
EO performs in a circus.
His squire is a fierce brunette in a scarlet jerkin.
What is she whispering in his ear?
Undoubtedly secrets that date back to the dawn of time.
Their number is a love parade, tango, very old mystery.
The magic works, in the smell of sawdust, sorts of slow motion.
It was counting without the ecologists.
Those!
They can be trusted to take preposterous initiatives.
Ban on the use of equines for such horribly commercial purposes.
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The hero fled on his four legs.
An immense sadness bathes his eyes.
He discovers the wide world.
It is the unknown.
It's loneliness.
Everything surprises him.
Nature is a permanent spectacle.
Humans are much less peaceful.
Why this violence?
What good is all this screaming?
EO wasn't used to it.
Brays of a philosopher
It is unique.
He doesn't bother anyone.
This sage contemplates the extent of the disaster with the braying of a philosopher.
They hitch him to a scrap metal cart.
He stops at a stud farm where the stallions almost seem to snub him.
His perplexity serves as his armour.
Reality glides over him like water on a bird's wing.
At times, his memories are tinged with a red light, like blood throbbing at the temples.
The noises seem to date back to the creation of the universe, so new are they to him.
A stay in a dog shelter will not give him a high opinion of his contemporaries.
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A stayer beats him up.
Veterinarians are treating him.
He trots through the countryside, aimlessly.
Gusts of tenderness come back to him, like when Kassandra offered him a carrot muffin for his birthday.
In the woods, a fox freezes on a branch.
An owl stands still.
There are wolves howling to death.
EO is just passing through.
pure cinema
Here he is in a city.
The sound of his hooves echoes on the cobblestones.
Dumbfounded, he stops in front of a showcase where an aquarium containing fish sits.
We wonder if he will not free them.
A kick would suffice.
Firefighters stop him.
He flees again, falls on a Polish driver, meets an Italian priest covered with gambling debts who brings him to a patrician residence occupied by Isabelle Huppert.
In this property, the grass is greener.
It's a change from the flashing lights of the police, from those highway areas where you cut your throat in the dark.
The donkey is heading towards its destiny, in the midst of docile cows, not even panicked.
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EO is a Dostoyevsky character.
Skolimowski is a painter.
The sequences constitute as many arrays.
Some take your breath away, like this shot of a dam spitting waves.
On a bridge, EO parks there, thinking of who knows what chimera.
In his eye, if you look closely, you'd swear you saw a tear.
EO
defies qualifiers.
It's pure cinema.
That, yes, still exists.
“EO”, drama by Jerzy Skolimowski, with Sandra Drzymalska, Tomasz Organek, Mateusz Kosciukiewicz. Duration 1h29.