The Sparrow in the Chimney Review: An Aesthetic Release for the Zürchers

      Note: This review was initially published as part of our coverage of Locarno 2024. The Sparrow in the Chimney will be released in theaters on August 1.

      There’s an exhilarating thrill in observing a filmmaker break away from established formulas and venture into new, unexplored realms. The Sparrow in the Chimney, Ramon Zürcher’s third feature, serves as the concluding piece in a trilogy of intensely charged chamber dramas. Those familiar with Zürcher’s earlier works, such as 2013’s The Strange Little Cat and 2021’s The Girl and the Spider—co-written and directed with his twin brother Silvan, who has produced all his sibling's projects—will likely recall the tension between their austere visual style and the intense conflicts woven throughout. These films, primarily captured in static shots within confined spaces (an apartment, a house) and over restricted time frames (Cat spans a single day, while Spider unfolds over two), resemble exercises in geometry, with meticulously crafted compositions always teetering on the brink of collapse. Beneath their rigid exteriors lie family disputes, acts of cruelty, and violence; the tension is so palpable at times that viewers might find themselves physically tensing in anticipation of an imminent explosion.

      However, these depictions of dysfunctional families also exhibit a distinct sensitivity to the surreal and dreamlike. The titular cat in The Strange Little Cat isn’t peculiar in itself, yet the film is unsettling, extracting moments of wonder and absurdity from the mundane life of a middle-class family. Objects and individuals frequently defy the Zürchers' formalism: a glass bottle spins on the stove; a ball hurtles through the kitchen window; buttons pop off shirts; and family members relay unsettling anecdotes to one another in an affectless tone, as if none of them are truly present—whatever "present" or "there" means. Spider similarly explores these themes, following a pair of friends and former roommates as they part when one moves into a new place, a transition constantly interrupted by bizarre interactions and diversions. Some of these episodes feel directly out of a fairy tale: an old woman appearing like a witch during a summer storm, or a downstairs neighbor who only appears at night. Both films unfold with a delicate web of uncanny details that elude straightforward interpretations; as one character muses in Spider, it’s “as if a secret force were holding everything together.”

      While Cat and Spider both hint at that elusive, dreamlike force, neither fully surrenders to it, creating a peculiar sense of balancing on the edge of an abyss, as if the films are perpetually on the verge of stepping into an alternate reality but never quite do so. This, in my view, is what renders the Zürchers’ cinema so captivating, making The Sparrow in the Chimney feel particularly thrilling.

      At its core, the film centers on Karen (Maren Eggert), a middle-aged mother of three who witnesses her life disintegrate over a family reunion weekend at her countryside home. This premise aligns with the Zürchers’ style, as Sparrow begins by exploring familiar sibling dynamics. There are conflicts among relatives, subtle micro and macro aggressions, and pets observing everyone like apprehensive guards. Yet this narrative also portrays a journey of self-liberation. Grounded in Karen's perspective—more so than in the more ensemble-driven Cat and Spider—Sparrow trails her as she grapples with her role within a family she has grown distant from, almost indifferent towards. Everything about her exudes resentment. Following her mother's death, Karen moved back to her childhood farmhouse with her husband and children, where much of Sparrow transpires, a beautiful cottage still overshadowed by traumatic memories. She is married to a man who is cheating on her with the neighbor; bitter and misanthropic (“a world without people,” she remarks at one point, “that would be paradise”), she has settled into a life dominated by intense anger, especially in her confrontations with her teenage daughter, Johanna (Lea Zoë Voss).

      However, Sparrow counters this narrative. As the family gathering escalates, Karen gradually begins to engage with the energies surrounding her—essentially reawakening emotionally, causing the film itself to come alive alongside her. Shot by Alex Hasskerl, who also worked on Cat and Spider, certain sequences in Sparrow upend the established visual language. Initially static, the camerawork becomes more fluid, reflecting Karen's loosening grasp on reality; after spending nearly an hour and a half observing her through predominantly fixed medium shots, the Steadicam scenes that follow her through the house in the latter part of the film are nothing short of liberating. How much one appreciates her journey likely depends on their tolerance for a character who is almost comically unlikable––the sort of grouch so devoid of empathy that she often regards her children as if they were from another planet. Yet the rewards are significant. Sparrow serves as a concluding