Jessica Kiang Imagine that one of Hitchcock’s villains — say, the guy missing the tip of a pinkie in “The 39 Steps,” or the shrink who runs the institute in “Spellbound” — did not simply come from a place of murderous intent but from a different place altogether, perhaps another dimension.
Imagine that villain’s supranatural malfeasance backdropped by jagged mountains, captured in black-and-white so crisp it could cut, and widescreen frames so wide whole Alpine ranges fit comfortably inside them.
And imagine it all unfolding to a deliberately overpowering score, like Bernard Herrman and Scott Walker conceived a baby during a sonic boom.
Now you are somewhere near Timm Kröger’s superbly crafted “The Theory of Everything” an overlong but enjoyable metaphysical thriller that delivers pastiche so meticulous it becomes its own source of supremely cinematic pleasure.
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