"filme clínico".

Como há quem se expresse de forma mais sóbria, educada e inteligente e porque estou danado com tanta preguiça...:

[...]. Riva and Jean-Louis Trintignant, as Anne's husband Georges, offer performances of enormous warmth and generosity, but as victims of a universally unavoidable terror they're believable only as icons, as stand-ins for our grandparents or parents or ourselves. [...].

 That Anne's mental and physical degradation unfurls with the severity of serious horror was perhaps a sly aesthetic decision, but it also feels intensely, in fact almost perversely, overdetermined; one can never shake the feeling that by magnifying death's ugliest qualities from a "measured" emotional remove, Amour is simply following the path of least resistance to achieving its desired visceral effect. It seems a given that audiences will leave this film shaken because, frankly, we all see somebody we know and love in Riva's wilting face, and it's hard to not be stirred by the resemblance. Haneke is keenly aware of this inevitability; its manipulative effect is so strong that he needn't do anything to generate a response. That's why Amour is content to coast on its prestige-picture austerity and dry, flavorless manner: Fueled by its audience's fear of their own mortality, the content on display is so inherently provocative that rendering it meaningful is beside the point. [...].

[...]; and, to quote Fernando F. Croce, his style is "so not-a-hair-out-of-place suffocating that even a lost pigeon's flapping wings [seem] too immaculately choreographed." [...].