This one really got under my skin. The Death of Mr. Lazarescu isn’t short on black comedy, but the humanity keeps barging in and stealing the scene. By the end, it felt less like I’d watched a film and more like I’d been stuck in the corridor with everyone else, waiting for someone to care properly.
The laughs are there, but they’re the sort you feel slightly bad about. Nobody comes off as a cartoon villain. It’s a bunch of tired, flawed people doing a brutal job inside a brutal system, and one man slowly slipping from “patient” into “problem”. The small stuff wrecked me: the realisation he won’t go back to his flat, his worry about the cats, and that horrible “he’s probably just drunk” shrug that keeps getting in the way of seeing what’s actually happening.
And then the night turns into a pressure cooker. A road accident clogs the place up, egos collide, people start snapping, and you can feel attention drifting from him to careers, pride, and sheer survival. It’s bleak, but not cynical — more like a hard stare at how dignity can get lost in the paperwork.