No guts, no glory. Actor Brady Corbet flings himself off the cliff of his directorial debut with a defiant disregard for safety or convention that is startling, admirable and exceptionally unusual to see from a neophyte filmmaker. It is also categorically lunatic, because for all there are moments when, arms windmilling and "Geronimoooooo!" ringing out, it almost seems like he might make it to the other side, of course he doesn't: guts will get you so far, but gravity always wins. Alternating immense bombast with long stretches of longueur in its psychologically questionable evocation of the formative years of a future despot, the film is formally confident, stylistically inventive and intensely irritating -- all the way up to an ending so extraordinarily bonkers you might find yourself simultaneously snorting at its ridiculousness and clapping at its audacity. That's if you're not using your hands to cover your poor ears: it is far from the best film in Venice, but it is...
