There was a conceptual gap, a kink in the weave, a run in the stocking of German director Christian Petzold‘s last film, “Phoenix” which largely defined one’s response to it.
Impeccably crafted and quite beautifully performed, the post-war story nonetheless hinges on a basic contrivance about a husband not recognizing his wife due to reconstructive surgery.
For some of us, no matter how much we admire its silky, slinky filmmaking, it proved a sticking point.
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