This film is a disgrace. A grim, disconnected mess that claims to be about George Enescu, yet does everything possible to strip him of his brilliance, dignity, and relevance. The actors deliver wooden, lifeless performances - often mumbling their lines to the point where entire scenes become unintelligible. The transitions between scenes are abrupt and nonsensical, like a bad fever dream stitched together without care or narrative logic.
Instead of exploring the genius of Enescu - his childhood talent, his connection with God and Romania, his obsession with music and family, his artistic madness while composing Oedipe for 20 years (nothing is said about how Enescu gave Oedipe a different ending, a new philosophical alure - unlike the ancient tragedies, he offered transcendence, not ruin), more thoughts he expose in his connection with journalist Bernard Gavoty, - we get a grotesque focus on misery, scandal, and nudity. The film centers more on Maruca Cantacuzino and her affairs, thoughts from her journal than on the music or Enescu himself. No inspiration, no passion, no truth - just a slow, sinister mockery. A terrible and broken image of a man who deserved reverence, not ridicule.
What's even more astonishing is that this film was presented abroad and toured through Romania as if it were some kind of national statement. But this film doesn't celebrate Enescu - it desecrates his legacy. There is absolutely no justification for taking this grotesque version of a national treasure and parading it on international stages.
This could have been a tribute to a titan of music. Instead, it's a tone-deaf, shallow, and frankly insulting portrayal. A total failure made by Toma Enache.
A mockery dressed up as cinema. Shallow, cruel, and unforgivable.
