![]() ![]() This is a film which maybe spins its wheels in terms of a progression of narrative or, indeed, ideas. But as he slowly goes crazy, the thief begins to obsess over a cleaner called Jasmine whom he can see with the still-working CCTV screen – and starts to see how he can escape. The lavatory is backed up and the thief is reduced to defecating in the hidden concrete bunker for super-special art pieces. ![]() (Or is it that their nonsense is now brutally, tactlessly revealed?) The thief has to scavenge what food scraps are left over in the fridge but he has to sip water from the timed-irrigation pipes for the plants. Defoe’s accomplice abandons him and ignores his desperate yells into the walkie-talkie and now the thief is utterly alone: a postmodern Robinson Crusoe (or maybe Robert Maitland from JG Ballard’s Concrete Island) stranded in a world whose high-end luxury and all its art pieces (canvases and sculptures and video art installations ceaselessly and pointlessly playing into a special room) are instantly transformed into nonsense. ![]()
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