I'm working on Wiener Blut at the moment, and I have to say that I feel distinctly greasy and gritty after an hour or so inside that space. It's a very moody and atmospheric piece, and Fritzl is a bastard. I have a feeling Lindemann relished writing this one. There's so much material and endless possibilities, and with his penchant for burying us all in fetid filth he must have been in hog heaven.
That said, I does it all so elegantly. I'm hard-pushed to do anything but step where he steps, though I may diverge a little, if only to see what I can do with this relatively clearly framed picture.
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