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At the beginning of every story of murder there is always a body. If the murderer is a serial killer, there is, of course, more than one. More importantly, the bodies left by the serial killer are not likely to be intact and whole. What he leaves behind and what we, the audience, will get to see is the body in pieces, dismembered, scattered. A series of snapshots, partial views, and close-ups, inflicting cold sharp shocks, is all we may glimpse: the head of Benjamin Raspail floating in a jar of formaldehyde in The Silence of the Lambs, a finger removed by the serial killer from his landlord’s hand in Kalifornia, a ziploc bag of fingers recovered from a flooded drainpipe in When The Bough Breaks, a surgically severed hand used to leave misleading fingerprints on a wall at a crime scene in Seven.
The problematic economic situation in most parts of Russia today is nevertheless the ideal climate for the flourishing of the arts. Especially in St. Petersburg there grows a fascinating new experimental music scene, from Moscow we receive new impulses in literature such as the poet Alina Vituchnovskaja... Russian cinema always had a good reputation, and the new generation of Russian filmmakers clearly tries to keep up with it.