An enigmatic yet intriguing exercise that is best to simply experience rather than assert meaning, Paul Felton & Joe Denardo's Slow Machine is an atmospheric descent into a discombobulated psyche. Low-fi aesthetics transposed onto what feels like an anachronistic narrative structure but isn't; the fractured perceptions of its main protagonist and her fears, thoughts, and uncertainties drive the viewers' sense of perception of the events which unfold. This feeling of fragmentation serves the film extremely well, exhibiting what feels like a series of vignettes more than a holistic narrative, which in many ways elucidate the internal perception of its main character in which gentrified Brooklyn, its disparate agents and actors, invoke a sense of consistent danger, anarchism, and intrigue. An effective sensorial experience which I appreciate but I'd be lying if I didn't say I found the whole film to be a little too void of feeling, particularly in the way it explicitly strives for emotional poignancy in its portrayal of the interiority of trauma inflicting its main protagonist that remains consistently, albeit intentionally, opaque.
Love of all things cinema brought me here.