Foxtrot is a series of dreams, three, each one with its own protagonist, distinctive mise en scène, and direction. In one, the sudden sense of void is portrayed with distressing cynicism, elegant geometrical compositions, and meticulously designed camerawork. In another, it switches to an ironic, almost fairytale-like, visual language—the camera hardly moving as the framing becomes flat, square, two-dimensional. In the final one, as if overwhelmed by an unbearable weight of existence, it seems to free from any stylistic filter and embrace a more natural, intimate, approach. As in its Samuel Maoz’s words, the film is meant to ‘shock and shake, hypnotise, and move.’ Mission accomplished.
A mistaken name, an empty can, a camel in the street—Foxtrot’s portrait of a fate tragically written by the most insignificant events is excruciating, but at the same time its manneristic aesthetic ultimately muffles its creative identity letting the intuitions be prevailed by an excessively perfect cerebral cage.
