As in Maddinís last two films, heís playing himself and he narrates the story of how he wants to escape the íPeg but just plain canít; it has something to do with the pull of his mother, and the family hairdresser shop, and primal forces in the land and the essential corruption of political life in the city. Heís bitter at the mangling of local hockey into a bargaining chip for the powerful and the vanishing of local landmarks but heís careful to measure his spleen venting with fanciful revenge.
Wonderfully fetid "memoriesĒ of his favourite dank haunts jostle for room with living dead hockey teams, while local bylaws that seem more suited to a Lovecraft collection are administered by bureaucrats with one foot in something hypocritically seedy.
As always, the masterís early cinema fetish is put to droll and guilt-ridden use, as sexual regret gets impossibly confused with the political quagmire of the city. His fondly repulsed recollections of a three-level, gender-split swimming pool must be seen to be hilariously disbelieved.
Maddin is generally overrated as an artist, when heís mostly a nutty entertainer ó Tim Burton gone North, and with way better referents. But here itís easy to see why heíd get such treatment. For sheer dislocating weirdness, Maddin has few equals, either in purity of intent or in fanatically detailed execution. (Maximum)