Cohen elevates Van Gogh to its rightful status as the work of a world-class auteur at his peak.
It’s a gripping lark that finds Claude Chabrol lithely sorting through the serpentine snarl of bourgie behavior.
After a repeat viewing, Caché may make or break your opinion of Haneke—which is just how the auteur probably wants it.
Can you imagine a less useful treatise in the mist of our current War on Terror?
No filmmaker since Hitchcock is as consumed by his own voyeurism—and moreover, ours—as Michael Haneke.