“Mr. K” is a species of European art film I had assumed was long extinct: mannered, self-consciously quirky, with an offbeat sense of humor and a visual style that’s both fusty and surreal, like Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s “Delicatessen” or, what is easily the apex of the genre, Roy Andersson’s “Songs From the Second Floor.”
Its title evokes a Kafka character, but in tone, “Mr. K” owes more to Luis Buñuel’s “The Exterminating Angel” or Marco Ferreri’s “La Grande Bouffe.” It’s ironic, highly stylized existentialism, though it requires great skill and care to pull off.
A Dutch-Belgian-Norwegian production, written and directed by Tallulah H. Schwab, “Mr. K” is performed in English by its international cast, lead by Crispin Glover, the acclaimed American character actor. This geographical ambiguity adds a certain frisson to the premise, which is situated out of place and out of time: A traveling magician (Glover) arrives at a dilapidated, labyrinthine hotel, and while he intends to stay only one night, he soon finds that he’s not able to leave. Cue dread, paranoia and a descent into madness.
In Schwab’s rendering, the corridors are cramped and the rooms are claustrophobic — even more so as the hotel begins to literally contract. The costuming and production design is exaggerated and darkly cartoonish; women have bleach-blonde bouffant hairdos and the hallways have peeling emerald wallpaper. Naturally, the guests are weirdos, though none are very memorable. And since Glover himself is the ultimate weirdo, it all feels a bit much.
Mr. K
Not rated. Running time: 1 hour 34 minutes. In theaters.
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