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A definitive 8/10 rating for a film that redefined the boundaries of cult cinema. Salto Mortale remains a cornerstone of transgressive art.
If you have a thing for black-and-white melodrama and don't mind that the film feels like it was unearthed from a literal trunk in an attic, sure. It’s got a specific, moody rhythm that I actually kind of dug. If you need pacing that moves faster than a brisk walk, or if you get annoyed by people making Very Bad Decisions because of their pride, you’re going to hate this.
Honestly, watching Salto Mortale felt a bit like finding a dusty postcard. It doesn’t tell you everything you need to know, but the vibe is there. It’s not trying to be The Shoes That Danced or anything high-concept. It just wants to show you some people in spandex doing dangerous things.
There’s this scene where the tension is supposed to be high because someone is climbing a ladder. It drags on. Like, really drags on. I started counting the rungs. It’s not necessarily bad, it’s just… quiet. You can feel the director waiting for you to get nervous, but I was mostly just wondering if the ladder was stable.
The performers have these looks on their faces like they’re carrying the weight of the world, even when they’re just standing around waiting for a cue. It’s charming, in a weird way. It reminded me a bit of the mood in The Lonely Woman, where everything feels just a little bit lonelier than it needs to be.
It’s not a masterpiece. It doesn’t need to be. There’s a moment near the end where the camera lingers on a prop—a glove, maybe? I don't know, it was just sitting there—and I kept waiting for it to be important. It never was. That’s kind of the movie in a nutshell. It’s imperfect. It’s a bit messy. But it feels real, like someone actually went out and filmed it instead of planning it all on a whiteboard.
It’s not as polished as Guilty of Love, but that’s fine. Sometimes you just want to watch people swing around on ropes and look miserable. 🎪