It's a familiar feeling for anyone who has braved the back catalog of German-produced Netflix thrillers: a sinking sensation that begins somewhere around the 5-minute mark, when you realize the only thing being strangled is the narrative, and the only suspense is whether the next line of dialogue will make less sense than the last.
The core problem, and there are many, lies with a screenplay that seems to have been translated from a language not yet invented by humans. Characters exchange dialogue that feels less like a conversation and more like a series of non-sequiturs, each line a solitary island in an ocean of awkward silence. Talented actors, particularly the excellent Svenja Jung, do their best to inject some semblance of emotion into this narrative abyss, but it's like asking a concert pianist to perform a masterpiece on a broken kazoo. You can see the effort, but the result is a dissonant, painful mess. The titular "thrills" are non-existent, unless you count the heart-pounding tension of watching two people look at each other with vaguely troubled expressions for extended periods.
This cinematic shipwreck is a stunning feast for the eyes. The film's DOP deserves a medal, or at least a better script. Every frame of Mallorca is a joy to watch. The golden-hour light bathing ancient stone villas, the impossibly blue waters of the Mediterranean, the serpentine roads carving through lush green hills-it's all a breathtaking advertisement for Spanish tourism.
In the end, Fall for Me is a rare and peculiar beast. It is a film that is profoundly bad in almost every technical and creative way. It's the cinematic equivalent of a luxury car with no engine: it looks magnificent on the outside, but it won't take you anywhere you want to go. Watch it for the scenery, but be warned: the only thing you'll fall for is the island of Mallorca, and even that won't be enough to save your evening.
