The first question that is asked in “Anatomy of a Fall,” a new film from the French director Justine Triet, is a simple one: “What do you want to know?” The line, which could stand as a motto for the whole movie, is spoken by a writer, Sandra Voyter (Sandra Hüller), in a chalet in the Alps. She is being interviewed by a graduate student, Zoé (Camille Rutherford), although their conversation is soon drowned out by a rumpus from above—specifically, an instrumental version of “P.I.M.P.,” by 50 Cent, played with a thunderous boom by Sandra’s husband, Samuel Maleski (Samuel Theis), who is also a writer. Either he’s deliberately sabotaging the interview or he wants to trigger an avalanche.
Of Samuel himself we see no sign, for the moment, and that matters. It foreshadows how the story will unfold. So much in “Anatomy of a Fall” is overheard, heard but not seen, seen but misunderstood, misremembered, conjured out of conjecture, or unwisely taken on trust. When we do catch sight of Samuel, he’s dead—sprawled in the snow beside the chalet, with a deep cranial wound and a trail of blood. So, did he tumble over a balcony or was he shoved? Did he hit his head on the edge of the shed below, or had the blow already been struck? Did he perish by his own hand, or at Sandra’s? Is 50 Cent a suspect? The puzzles proliferate. Warning: Do not expect them all to be solved.
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة October 16, 2023 من The New Yorker.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك ? تسجيل الدخول
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة October 16, 2023 من The New Yorker.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
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Kyungha-ya. That was the entirety of Inseon’s message: my name.
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Reckoning with Donald Trump's return to power.
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On a mid-October Sunday not long ago sun high, wind cool-I was in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for a book festival, and I took a stroll. There were few people on the streets-like the population of a lot of capital cities, Harrisburg's swells on weekdays with lawyers and lobbyists and legislative staffers, and dwindles on the weekends. But, on the façades of small businesses and in the doorways of private homes, I could see evidence of political activity. Across from the sparkling Susquehanna River, there was a row of Democratic lawn signs: Malcolm Kenyatta for auditor general, Bob Casey for U.S. Senate, and, most important, in white letters atop a periwinkle not unlike that of the sky, Kamala Harris for President.
