n a culture under siege by every variant of marketing tease, there is no cleaner high than stumbling on a film that enters one’s parched heart with no fanfare. The only time I’ve ever experienced this en masse was during the first press screening of at the 2016 Cannes Film Festival. In a competition line-up rammed with old-guard names, critics were puzzled about the inclusion of the third feature by a little-known German director named Maren Ade. Its poster cleared nothing up, seemingly two swirls of hair. We took our seats and as the film slowly began to show its hand, the revelation started at ‘This is good.. No, this is great… This is the greatest love of all!’ I the film, after an emotionally significant karaoke performance of Whitney Houston. We didn’t walk out of the Debussy theatre, we floated and instinctively mounted a large group dinner, pooling our collective awe…
