Béla Tarr’s final film, The Turin Horse, is a bleak and haunting meditation on the end of the world, on the collapse of civilization and the inevitability of decay. The film is inspired by the true story of philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche’s mental breakdown, yet it transcends biography to become a universal statement about human suffering, futility, and the cyclical nature of existence. Shot in stark black and white, the film presents a world stripped of beauty, hope, and meaning, a world in which the only constants are repetition, decline, and the slow march toward oblivion.
The narrative, if it can be called that, is minimal. An old man and his daughter live in isolation, performing the same tasks day after day: drawing water, preparing food, tending to a horse that refuses to work. The repetition is suffocating, yet it is also oddly meditative. Tarr suggests that life itself is a series of repetitions, that we are all trapped in cycles of behavior and routine from which there is no escape. The arrival of a stranger and a woman only temporarily disrupts this pattern, ultimately reinforcing the film’s central thesis: that human connection is fleeting and ultimately meaningless in the face of cosmic indifference.
What is remarkable about The Turin Horse is its complete rejection of conventional narrative satisfaction. There is no character development, no plot progression, no resolution. Instead, the film simply documents the slow deterioration of its characters and their world. The horse, which refuses to work, becomes a symbol of resistance, of a refusal to participate in the futile machinery of existence. Yet, even this resistance is ultimately futile, for the world continues its inexorable march toward entropy and dissolution.
The film’s visual style is deliberately austere, with Tarr using long takes and minimal camera movement to create a sense of stasis and inevitability. The black and white cinematography strips away all distraction, forcing the viewer to confront the raw reality of human suffering and the fundamental meaninglessness of existence. The sound design, too, is integral, with the film’s sparse dialogue and ambient noise creating an atmosphere of profound isolation and despair.
The Turin Horse is not a film for everyone. It is bleak, uncompromising, and offers no comfort or hope. Yet, for those willing to engage with its philosophical depth and embrace its nihilistic worldview, it offers a profound meditation on the human condition. It is Tarr’s final statement, a masterpiece of cinema that refuses easy categorization or interpretation. It is a film that lingers in the mind, a reminder of the fragility of human existence and the ultimate futility of our attempts to impose meaning on a fundamentally indifferent universe.
