Bored bourgeois dilettante and his bored faux-bohemian wife live out their empty, aristocratic dreams in an isolated castle full of chickens. Chickens for life. Chickens at life. Chickens for eggs. Roosters without purpose, without worker-hens to do their dirty work; the trash piles up. The empty wife is at constant sexual readiness; but she's disappointed with the game and its players. Excitement is desired. And then in walk the criminal element, proletarian in taste, practical in nature. What a mix! There is even a visit to the castle on the hill by other bored bourgeois acquaintances, to punch up the empty, cold idiocy of the scene. And the prolo-crims, loyal to their patriarchal boss, wait to for rescue, for their Godot. But there is no more honour amongst thieves than there is amongst bourgeois and all round, disappointment reigns to the rat-tahtat-tat of gunfire and death. In the end, one betrayal is as good as another and the ultimate alienation which is the product of a narrow, individualistic lifesyle is left to howl in its usual shriveled, muted manner.
Review of Cul-de-sac
