How to classify the films of Swedish septuagenarian Roy Andersson? Are they depressants or palliatives, aphrodisiacs or abortifacients? Among their strikingly varied, erratic, and difficult to predict side effects have been reported giddiness, stoicism, euphoria, suicidal ideation; some subjects have even complained of boredom.
Given the degree of volatility involved, perhaps a pause on the distribution of these films should be considered. Can small cinema be allowed to escape the rigorous scrutiny to which we regularly subject big pharma?