Loretta Fahrenholz’s films confront a cynical understanding of a prevailing reality with an ingrained affection for human life—an ethos one might call “emo-core.” The prosaic muteness of some of the characters in her films could be said, in fact, to stem from certain “arty” attitudes that mimick a Brechtian non-identificatory exploitation of language—not to mention the equally “arty” hipsterism, or rather a slant that renders hipsters, often urban youths, incapable of effectively inhabiting any prescribed role within society. Behind muteness, the true cynic sees tenderness. And how can one not lose oneself in tender feelings in front of the young men thrown into revolutionary narratives in Implosion (2011); or the budding artists caught up in the destitution of their intimate, everyday life in Haust (2010); or even the chameleonic Emily Sundblad as portrayed in Que Bárbara (2012), performing her music, shopping for wine in the company of her mother, hanging out with friends. Towards these characters one could feel, if not compassion, at least empathy. And no matter their beauty, their naïveté, what surfaces is a tragicomic life, hailed by the phoenix of a démodé nihilism, a cultural stance fueled by a sort of metropolitan white-trash imaginary, which represses even the most hyperbolic formulation of any political statement on the present.