Dear Michael Haneke, you may be wondering why you have come back to an empty house. Well, Michael, this is the hardest letter I have ever had to write.
There is no easy way to say this. You see, it's over, Michael. I can no longer be in a relationship with you.
We both know this has been a long time coming. I now realise this has always been an abusive relationship. It started with Funny Games in 1997. (Can you believe we have persevered with this farce for 16 years?) I could not stand your leering preachiness and your audience hectoring. I felt like I was being patronised by a cruel film studies lecturer. Why did I keep coming back for more?
But I didn't bail then. No, I stuck at it. Trying to make this relationship work, but just getting hurt every time. Then, like any faltering relationship, we returned to the initial spark in an effort to rekindle our feelings. You remade Funny Games in American in 2007. It was even worse than before.
And then you started to get really popular with the cool crowd. All the festivals kept giving you wreaths for your posters and my curiosity made me return to see if you had somehow changed and we could make another go of it.
But you hadn't changed.
You still loved to torture me with interminable scenes and meandering plots and obscured motivations. The White Ribbon just went on and on and on and then ended. I felt alone in my dislike of you. Everyone heaped praise upon you, but I just couldn't see it.
The Oscar was the end of the road for us. I went to see Amour this week. Again I was fooled by the praise heaped upon your shoulders like so much ordure. Again my curiosity got the better of me and I went to see what all the fuss was about.
This won an Oscar?
Again with the interminable scenes? Again with the interesting ideas and powerful performances suffocated by your stultifying and bullying hand.How long do you think an audience can stand watching an old man trying to catch a pigeon? Are you just testing my patience? Why must everything be an endurance test with you?
Well, I've had it. I'm off to stay at Kathryn Bigelow's house for a while until I feel better. Don't try to call me.
So, it's over, Haneke. I can no longer endure your films.
It's not you, it's me. No, hang on a second, I got that wrong.
It's not me, it's you.
Peace out, beardy.
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