When presented with the plot description of DEAD LEAVES - the somber tale of a disturbed man who absconds with his girlfriend's fresh corpse for a melancholy road trip to their favorite romantic getaway - I girded my loins and steeled my resolve in preparation for what I fully expected to be a feature-length orgy of necro-luv along the lines of Joe D'Amato's BEYOND THE DARKNESS, or worse, Jorg Buttgereit's NECROMANTIK films... only to encounter a quiet, sincere and personal story that firmly resists the urge to slide into gross-out exploitation.

Inspired by the death-obsessed love poetry of Poe, Baudelaire and Artaud - whose portraits are sprinkled throughout the opening credits, along with those of self-destroyed musicians Ian Curtis (of Joy Division) and Rozz Williams (of Christian Death) - writer/director Constantin Werner has crafted a doomed love story that runs directly counter to the saccharine "love conquers all" visions of mainstream Hollywood and is probably the most realistic film I've seen to depict the mood that Poe so eloquently expressed in odes like "Annabel Lee." This and other tragic sonnets are interspersed via voice-overs throughout the film as a kind of off-kilter Greek chorus, and help to reveal the tormented mind of the protagonist better than he can in words (the character hardly speaks throughout the film).

After a freak accident takes the life of his beloved partner Laura (Elizabeth Gondek), the already-disturbed Joey (Haim Abramsky) starts a slow, resolute progression into madness. Slipping down the fire escape with her corpse, he props her up in the passenger seat of his filth-covered Porsche and begins a meandering exodus from their Brooklyn flat to the secluded seaside spot where they first declared their eternal love (shown in flashback, with the not-so-subtle image of a dead raccoon placed in the foreground). The journey is interspersed with melancholy reminiscences of key moments in their weird, obsessive relationship, and leads Joey and his stiffening "companion" through a series of small towns and cheap motels; title cards naming the various locations are provided, but ultimately prove meaningless.

This is where the resemblance to the traditional "road movie" ends, as our sullen hero fails to interact with any of the people he encounters along the way, instead spending more and more quality time with his lifeless gal-pal. Even when he's forced to hitchhike after an unseen perp steals his car (and apparently drives it for hundreds of miles with Laura's stiffening cadaver still buckled into the passenger seat), he shares little more than a handshake with the good Samaritan who assists him. Instead, he spends most of his time tending to Laura's putrefying body through odd, loose rituals of familiarity - most of which involve booze and television - and crudely patching up bits of her with needle and thread as entropy claims both her flesh and his sanity. Eventually this collapse begins to consume Joey's body as well, as he systematically mutilates himself with knives and a handgun.

Despite the above description, this film scarcely strays into gross-out territory, depicting Laura's decomposition through very subtle makeup changes (after all, the earliest stages of decay would be indicated more by smell than by appearance), and thankfully we're spared scenes of Joey mounting his beloved's corpse (though it is implied somewhat). Without either interpersonal drama or exploitation, we're left with what's essentially an 80-minute tone poem that does little to explore the details of the main character's grief (we're only briefly treated to a moment of real emotion), thus offering few chances to find much sympathy aside from the emotional common ground of loss and fear of death.

To the filmmakers' credit, this is a beautiful-looking film, shot against perpetually gray, rain-drenched autumnal landscapes with a baroque sense of shadow and color. Sadness seems to ooze from every frame, pulled deeper into the darkness by a somber musical score, with songs varying from blues to gothic rock (including Rozz Williams) to operatic excerpts. The resulting ambience runs counter to Abramsky's cold, distant portrayal of Joey, and this along with the poetry readings helps to speak on his emotional behalf. I'm not sure if this is completely effective in driving the point home, but if its primary goal is to help us understand the mindset of someone resolute on ending their own life, then they definitely hit their mark. In fact, I'd suggest hiding the cutlery and flushing those sleeping pills before settling in for this one.

Having effectively purged the stain on my soul with a judicious dose of peach pie and a cuddle with my very-much-alive wife, I was thereby able to sit down at the computer and delve into the technical stuff:

Cult Epics brings you this art-house fave in a simple, straightforward package: though preserving the excellent 16mm compositions in decent 1.85:1 format, the transfer does suffer a bit when it comes to the film's abundant use of shadows, even taking into account the inherent grain of the film stock. Areas of deep black are rendered a mottled blue at times, and lack of contrast in some scenes obscures important details. The mono track is fairly clear, but some of the low-end sounds - including the rare moments of Joey's dialogue - are distorted to a muddy rumble. It doesn't really detract from the overall experience, however.

Extras are light but worth checking out - Werner's commentary, though dry, does detail his philosophical approach to channeling the tragic motivations of his favorite dark poets. He also provides some amusing details about achieving desired effects (such as his photographer's unique approach to filming roadkill), and explains that shooting most of the film in fleabag motels was not only a thematic consideration, but a cost-effective way of boarding his "road team." A camcorder document of the film's creation is also provided, and further illustrates these stories while showing the filmmakers' dedication to their project.

Well... as difficult as it may seem to recommend such obvious suicide fodder, I have to admit that DEAD LEAVES kept my interest throughout its 80-minute runtime, and left me artistically satisfied, if emotionally downtrodden. It's not entertainment by any means... but it is compelling to watch, and serves as an effective modern-day tribute to the classic tales of grief which inspired it. Still, keep that peach pie handy, just in case.