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Pupi Avati's The American Backyard is a far more intricate film than it first appears.
On the surface, it presents itself as an open tribute to 1940s American cinema and its evocative atmospheres-an era the 86 year old director absorbed in his youth.
Then, there is the apparent storyline: a search for the culprit behind a series of murders, piecing together a mosaic of clues.
But beyond that, lingering in the background, is something more elusive-a story of obsession, only vaguely evoked yet left for the audience to complete. An obsession that binds the narrator and the killer in ways just out of reach.
These three layers converge in the final scene, where fresh and salt water merge-and where, perhaps, the protagonist finally finds himself.
On the surface, it presents itself as an open tribute to 1940s American cinema and its evocative atmospheres-an era the 86 year old director absorbed in his youth.
Then, there is the apparent storyline: a search for the culprit behind a series of murders, piecing together a mosaic of clues.
But beyond that, lingering in the background, is something more elusive-a story of obsession, only vaguely evoked yet left for the audience to complete. An obsession that binds the narrator and the killer in ways just out of reach.
These three layers converge in the final scene, where fresh and salt water merge-and where, perhaps, the protagonist finally finds himself.