There Will Be Blood

So, as yatima was saying on Saturday morning, amid the clutter of a roadside cafe, with all the children being remarkably well-behaved and the nicest weather we’d had in Sydney for a few weeks: not many contemporary writers even bother dealing with the world of work. This might be why There Will Be Blood, which C and I saw that evening, starts off as a brilliantly cinematic essay on how the American oil industry got started – seriously, it depicts the poetry of industry in a way which made me think of the bit in Moby-Dick where the crew of the ship break out into opera – but then can’t stop itself from descending into Citizen Kane For Dummies by the third act.

SPOILER ALERT, although not really, because it turns out that the scary oil tycoon hates everyone in the world, and cannot feel love, and ends up all alone in his enormous mansion, full of rage and drunken misery!

I haven’t been as disappointed in a film in ages. It’s not Mr Day-Lewis’ fault, although he doesn’t exactly help with all the yelling and grimacing.


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