







Bewildering, beautiful, and sometimes very funny, Black Moon gives no map. Malle lets his heroine roam a realm where history and fantasy run side by side: a sunlit pastoral turns into a gender war, a storybook detail curdles into menace. The chaos has its grammar—dream logic with a dash of Lewis Carroll—and when it clicks, it hypnotises.
The spell wavers. Sven Nykvist’s camera anchors the glow; the soundscape hums; crooked jokes land. Then the narrative thins, and you’re pawing at symbols like loose change; a unicorn here, feral naked children there, an old woman being breastfed. It’s mood over motive—capricious by design.
I admired the nerve and craft more than I fel the pull. Black Moon works best when you stop chasing meaning and let it wash over you. As experience, it’s singular; as a story, it keeps slipping through your fingers.