“The Death of Mr. Lazarescu” was the death of my soul.

I arrived at Lecture Hall 6, attracted by the idea of having a pleasant, intellectually-stimulating experience on that perfectly crisp kind of Sunday October night. I came with my two closest “bosom buddies,” if you will, and even pilfered a pack of dates from my closet (I don’t think it qualifies as pilfering if it comes from one’s own closet, but I still take a great deal of pleasure in using the word … so … pilfer it is). We three, arms interlocking, skipped down the steps and sat down in the front row, dead center.

Now I will subject you all to the beginning of a review that, if you’ve had your eyes open during the past few weeks, you’ve probably already come across:

“If there’s a tougher sell than a Romanian movie by a hitherto unknown director, it’s a Romanian movie by an unknown director that takes two and half hours to tell the tale of a 62-year-old pensioner’s final trip to the hospital.”

Truer words have never been spoken.

After this point, the critic goes on to say how well-received the film was at the Cannes Film Festival, so on and so forth. Now, I am not about to make a blanket statement about the attendees at this renowned festival, or about Harpur Film Society for that matter. Frankly, I think that HFS is taking very intelligent initiative in trying to bring some culture to the school. I applaud them for that whole-heartedly.

But it has happened before that a film is applauded even when the content or direction is not completely understood. Such films get praise just because the praise-givers want to seem more intellectually cunning for not only understanding such a film but, moreover, for giving it positive recognition.

We managed to stay through the first 30 minutes, at which point we felt like we were getting ulcers-by-contact from the debacle, or lack thereof, on the screen. The scenes were not even artfully shot; it felt like the director was trying as hard as possible to create an impression of dreaded, lonely, decrepit old age. The apartment looked dingy … the dialogue felt dingy. Mr. Lazarescu is seen sitting at his worn-out kitchen table yelling at his sister, then his next-door neighbors are seen yelling at each other, and yet these displays of frustration don’t come across as passionate and engaging … just stale.

It was actually quite disheartening to leave the movie. I felt like I had failed as an open-minded movie-goer. But this movie did not enlighten us, it did not enrich our lives in any shape or form, it did not even evoke feelings of sympathy for this man. It simply left me feeling drained, slightly bored and slightly depressed.

I may be seen as having a biased opinion since I only stayed for the first 30 minutes, but honestly, had I stayed any longer, I would have been snoring loudly and obnoxiously, interrupting the uneventful illustration on the screen — be it the man scratching his ulcer or the neighbor’s wife getting a nice patronizing smack on the ass from her husband.