I came across one movie that I read good reviews about and the title was interesting – He Died with a Felafel in His Hand, 2001, by Australian director Richard Lowenstein. Neither to the Jewish theme, nor to the detective, what the title might suggest, the film has nothing to do with it. This is a film about the life of a certain Danny,
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I came across one movie that I read good reviews about and the title was interesting – He Died with a Felafel in His Hand, 2001, by Australian director Richard Lowenstein. Neither to the Jewish theme, nor to the detective, what the title might suggest, the film has nothing to do with it. This is a film about the life of a certain Danny, bogged down, like the company of his friends, in the “viscous jelly of a meaningless existence”, which we also have the opportunity to watch during the almost two-hour film. Danny is a 30-year-old unsuccessful writer who tries to write from time to time based on the books he has read - from Dostoevsky, whose name he even somehow seems to be a bailiff, to Kerouac, in imitation of whom he tries to get a roll of paper for a teletype so that the pages do not restrain the flow of his literary thought. But he almost never manages to print more than two sentences, however, once he will put on paper and send his work to the magazine, the fee for which will allow him to then not go to prison. And so this whole company, whose members change from time to time, really leads a completely meaningless existence, moving from house to house, paying no rent, doing nothing. There is practically no plot in the film, the situation is sometimes absolutely delusional, sometimes even tragic, but in the end the hero and his girlfriend again rush to unknown where and why. I cannot say that the film made a strong impression on me.
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