This is precisely the kind of pretentious bullshit I cannot stand about those arrogant circles of independent filmmaking that are intoxicated with their own edgy pseudo-profundity.  And the worst part about it is In the City of Sylvia is one of those films that will clearly illuminate me for the sleeper agent of the unwashed masses of Hollywood Apologists that I must certainly be for deigning to enjoy-- I don't know-- Iron Man or some shit instead of a film as stifling pompous as this, which will surely be embraced by any number of the type of "cinephiles" that sneer at the very thought that I might actually prefer attending the local multiplex where I can see unlimited films in considerable comfort for twelve quid a month instead of EXCLUSIVELY attending one of the nearby two or three screen arthouses (not to disparage some of the lovely programming those establishments have-- but that whole mess is for another rant at perhaps some other time).

I am suffering under no illusion that this is a rare thing.  It doesn't matter how many independent films I might gushingly praise.  Every time I or someone of kindred spirit lambastes a filmmaker for conjuring up nauseatingly, tediously lofty concept pictures like  The New World or Me, You And Everyone We Know or L'Enfant or, God help me, Elephant we must steel ourselves against the nasty little barbs of that none too reticent sub-group of film lovers that drink this shit up like it was the cinematic equivalent to a cup of Kopi Luwak.

To hell with that though.  I'll not be a party to such circlejerkery.  This film opens with our ridiculous looking girl-man of hero staring at us for five minutes before "OMG INSPIRATION" sets in and he begins to draw (action!), cuts to a ludicrously long take of us watching passers-by down an alleyway in Strasbourg (intrigue!), and pretty much continues along the same course until we get to the 20-30 minute scene of this effete and gender-ambiguous prat sitting around watching people at an outdoor cafe until he is arrested by a mysterious young woman (romance!).

I can't even give you a solid timeframe to work with in regards to the progression of this film because it sucks one into a sort of alternate dimension where dialogue is a foreign concept and events do the...uh... opposite of occur?  It's the type of film where the release of death is temptingly sweet, but I could resort to only an anesthetized state where I would occassionly pop back into consciousness only to be filled with incredulity at the continuing and expanding narrative vacuum on screen.

I guess at some point something kind of, maybe, grudgingly begins to happen as Captain Fey Brighteyes begins to play the pursuer, or rather creepy fucking stalker, to a girl (Sylvia apparently!), but I was numbed past the point of caring by then and the last thing I remember before giving up on the film entirely was him knocking over his beer glass and acting like a spaz about it.

Seriously, here's our protagonist:

I mean just look at this guy!  Beyond the standard creepy stalker fare, what do you think is going through is mind right now?  "Gee, I wonder what she uses on her hair!"  And, oh, poor Sylvia... She disguises it well, but look at those eyes.  That is abject fear in those eyes.  Run, woman! Hit him with that boulder of a handbag and run for the motherfucking hills...of Germany perhaps.  Eastern Germany. 

Damn, that still photo evokes more feeling in me than the entirety of the film.  Which I suppose brings me to the one compliment I can give to director Jose Luis Guerin: the man can set up some wonderful camera shots.  He can't make a movie to save his life, but he can do some pretty nifty things pointing that camera around.  There are a number of images in the film that come damn near close to being as artistically impressive as I think this project was intended to be.  I believe my favorite was in the cafe, shooting over the shoulder of one woman close-up into the cafe window where we not only see multiple reflections of other women, but also through the glass into the darkened building at Sylvia inside.  It was really quite striking and was the only time I shook from my stupor without that feeling of oblivion pressing in on all sides.  Sweet merciful Christ, what a waste of photographic ingenuity.

That's all there is.  There is no more.  See this picture and its pre-op tranny, loser of a romantic hero at your own peril.