I need to say upfront, this might read like a trauma dump, but that’s because of how deeply it cut into me.
The Turin Horse isn’t just bleak cinema, it’s a mirror. And that’s why it hit me so hard. I’m deeply afraid of living my life in routine, of moving through the same dead motions until nothing inside me is left. This film made me so uncomfortable because it reflected myself back at me. I loved it and I hated it for the exact same reason.
For nearly five years, I lived in a killing routine, teetering on the edge of suicide, and movies like this always cut deeper than anything else. Watching the father and daughter, locked into repetition, “living” (if you can even call that living) in motion without movement it reminded me of what it means to exist in a place where everything around you is already dead. The environment isn’t just background here; it’s a slow executioner. The place you live in, the people around you those things matter more than we admit. If you live in a dead place, you will die with it. The endless wind in this film doesn’t just shake the house; it drains the soul, leaving nothing but survival stripped of meaning. Every shot lingers far past comfort, every gesture feels stretched until it breaks. There’s no escape, no distraction, no cinematic mercy. It’s suffocating. And after a while, the film stops feeling profound and starts to feel like self-inflicted suffering. And that’s the point.

I need to say upfront, this might read like a trauma dump, but that’s because of how deeply it cut into me.
The Turin Horse isn’t just bleak cinema, it’s a mirror. And that’s why it hit me so hard. I’m deeply afraid of living my life in routine, of moving through the same dead motions until nothing inside me is left. This film made me so uncomfortable because it reflected myself back at me. I loved it and I hated it for the exact same reason.
For nearly five years, I lived in a killing routine, teetering on the edge of suicide, and movies like this always cut deeper than anything else. Watching the father and daughter, locked into repetition, “living” (if you can even call that living) in motion without movement it reminded me of what it means to exist in a place where everything around you is already dead. The environment isn’t just background here; it’s a slow executioner. The place you live in, the people around you those things matter more than we admit. If you live in a dead place, you will die with it. The endless wind in this film doesn’t just shake the house; it drains the soul, leaving nothing but survival stripped of meaning. Every shot lingers far past comfort, every gesture feels stretched until it breaks. There’s no escape, no distraction, no cinematic mercy. It’s suffocating. And after a while, the film stops feeling profound and starts to feel like self-inflicted suffering. And that’s the point.

O quão bem Tarr faz filmes depressivos deveria ser estudado.

O quão bem Tarr faz filmes depressivos deveria ser estudado.

We got it bro

We got it bro

Tarr sets us up again in his pessimistic and desolate landscape in this film.

It starts off with an apocryphal anecdote of Nietzsche saving the horse from it's torment which starts the beginning of his madness and descent.

Tarr's film is an antithesis to Nietzsche, Nietzsche wanted to overcome nihilism but Tarr presents to us, a maddening, nihilistic landscape. However, Tarr presents to us a world with the "death of God", God represents the moral perfection and perfection of creation. Yet through the "death of God" life loses it's meaning, and then apocalyptic. As well as the characters in this film attempt to overcome it through their will to live.

Tarr sets us up again in his pessimistic and desolate landscape in this film.

It starts off with an apocryphal anecdote of Nietzsche saving the horse from it's torment which starts the beginning of his madness and descent.

Tarr's film is an antithesis to Nietzsche, Nietzsche wanted to overcome nihilism but Tarr presents to us, a maddening, nihilistic landscape. However, Tarr presents to us a world with the "death of God", God represents the moral perfection and perfection of creation. Yet through the "death of God" life loses it's meaning, and then apocalyptic. As well as the characters in this film attempt to overcome it through their will to live.

I seem to remember Werckmeister Harmonies as one of the least enjoyable film experiences I’d had up to that time. I have, however, since then acquired a taste for slow films in which nothing happens. In other contexts at least - usually Asian. So I’m hanging out with Bela Tarr again to test my cineaste bonafides, and it’s slightly better this time, but still not for me.

A father and daughter living in a small shack in the countryside is subject to unexplained misfortunes - they wake up one day and their well has dried up. The horse stops eating and working. Apocalypse surrounds them, as gales howl, and it appears that nature is abandoning them, humble as their life is.

It’s all shot in this transcendent style, with long takes and slow moving cameras, and a beautifully deliberate use of zooms and framing. The black and white photography is lovely. The glacial pace is arguably appropriate in depicting this slow death of a family. Trust me, I get it.

It’s just not particularly enjoyable, edifying, or enlightening. Only in small moments do the images suck you in to a point of flow. You’re never out of analysis mode.

(When we observe the cart outside the house, we know in advance that Tarr is going to make us watch the entire thing be unloaded).

If there’s a lack on my part, I guess that it’s not because I don’t understand it, or that I’m a Tik-Tok-addled millennial, but I’m simply not at a level of Zen not to let thought take over in the long scenes of people eating potatoes. There may come a time when I’m capable, but not yet. Still to come is all 400-so minutes of Satantango.

I seem to remember Werckmeister Harmonies as one of the least enjoyable film experiences I’d had up to that time. I have, however, since then acquired a taste for slow films in which nothing happens. In other contexts at least - usually Asian. So I’m hanging out with Bela Tarr again to test my cineaste bonafides, and it’s slightly better this time, but still not for me.

A father and daughter living in a small shack in the countryside is subject to unexplained misfortunes - they wake up one day and their well has dried up. The horse stops eating and working. Apocalypse surrounds them, as gales howl, and it appears that nature is abandoning them, humble as their life is.

It’s all shot in this transcendent style, with long takes and slow moving cameras, and a beautifully deliberate use of zooms and framing. The black and white photography is lovely. The glacial pace is arguably appropriate in depicting this slow death of a family. Trust me, I get it.

It’s just not particularly enjoyable, edifying, or enlightening. Only in small moments do the images suck you in to a point of flow. You’re never out of analysis mode.

(When we observe the cart outside the house, we know in advance that Tarr is going to make us watch the entire thing be unloaded).

If there’s a lack on my part, I guess that it’s not because I don’t understand it, or that I’m a Tik-Tok-addled millennial, but I’m simply not at a level of Zen not to let thought take over in the long scenes of people eating potatoes. There may come a time when I’m capable, but not yet. Still to come is all 400-so minutes of Satantango.