Review of "Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass": The Brothers Quay Make Their Comeback

      Note: This review was initially published as part of our coverage of the 2024 BFI London. Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass is set to open in theaters on August 29.

      Timothy and Stephen Quay have created a distinctive style in the realm of stop-motion animation: vigor and energy matched with refined control; a dance of auditory and visual rhythms; filled with trivia and obscurities reminiscent of Borges and Pessoa; and featuring sequences that are purely, sensually, and cinematically abstract. Their latest work, Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass, which draws heavily from Bruno Schulz’s novel of the same name, introduces additional stylistic peculiarities within a more traditional narrative framework.

      The specific details of this narrative are challenging to fully articulate, but we can confidently note a few key elements. The main character is Jozef, a lean, ruddy man who visits his father at a sanatorium in the Carpathian Mountains. In reality, his father is deceased; however, in the sanatorium, where time has been inexplicably altered, he is still alive. The setting also includes the six-armed proprietor, Dr. Gotard; an unnamed maid; and a sinister satyr with an irregularly shaped head. All of this unfolds within a peculiar device that, through some mysterious means, permits the viewer to witness memories or possibly premonitions from a mystical retina.

      If the film follows any sort of narrative trajectory, it manifests within the overwhelming flow of visual imagery and subconscious impulses, resembling a collection of recurring themes in various forms rather than distinct events adhering to a conventional three-act structure. The most significant developments—of themes, characters, and atmosphere—occur in subtle, fleeting details: in loops of top hats cascading down stairs, the slight movements of the camera around a woman donning a high heel, or the quick action of Dr. Gotard inserting a metal rod into an unending vibration. Nonetheless, for those preoccupied with the maid’s whereabouts or when certain narrative threads will converge, Sanatorium may appear quite stagnant and rhythmless.

      This unconventional structural approach is partly a result of the film’s visual style, which, akin to much of the Quays’ oeuvre, draws inspiration from German Expressionism. Every texture, movement, and melody is imbued with depth and symbolism, and the characters exist entirely in relation to these elements: they lack independent identities, and their thoughts and emotions are manifested externally through the intricate settings, distorted shadows, monosyllabic close-ups, calligraphic smoke swirls, and the silver sheen of their indistinct faces. This creates a haunting atmosphere akin to the mood of Kafka’s The Castle, instilling a pervasive ambiguity and existential dislocation that is never resolved or diminished.

      Describing the visual style in this manner, however, overlooks the various innovations the Quays have introduced—be it transforming Dalian landscapes into ethereal worlds, utilizing shifts in ratio and perspective to chart psychosexual terrains, or playfully engaging with avian themes from Mozart’s The Magic Flute. How do we then fit the live-action sequences into this framework, which unfold like perverse silent films, acting as natural counterparts to the puppet universe? The challenge and pleasure of addressing such inquiries are essential to enjoying the Quays’ work. One of the great joys of their films is that they are both deeply personal and perpetually elusive, communicating directly with us yet in a language we cannot entirely grasp. They are, as a phrase from Sanatorium suggests, theaters for one, with a limited view.

      Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass was screened at the BFI London Film Festival.