The thing that will stick with me from Stranger by the Lake - well besides all the sexy times (and they are sexy with a capital sex) - are the wonderfully strange long shots of middle-aged men, naked or not, loitering in the bushes like some reinterpretation of Renoir by way of Honcho. The way the camera lingers, the effervescent greenery, the wind rushing through the tree limbs - its tranquility is inverted, turned strange, otherworldly, by their presence aimlessly wandering amid the branches. They're either zombies or still lifes, in search of brains or a patch of matted leaves upon which to perch. This movie could be a nightmare that Walt Whitman had once, if he'd also dreamt of automobiles - if you want them again, look for them under his tire treads.
The insistence upon repetition - the same hours over and over again, one endless afternoon lapsing into one endless night's beginning - recalls Sisyphus and Paranormal Activity simultaneously - Oh Christ no the sun is going down, and darkness, inky with god knows what, is upon us again; those aimless men, leaves of grass between their toes, morph into black-eyed wrath come the twinkle of twilight. The sun glistening on the skin of water and bodies, the sounds of footsteps softened by sneakers patting through the undergrowth - this is an arousal of the senses, to spine-tingling end.