Make no mistake about it, “The Man Who Killed Don Quixote” is a love letter to art, to those that dare dream and how it can also lead us to madness, but the best most joyous kind. The overt symbolism is delivered here with a wink from Terry Gilliam, who returns to his roots of satirical comedy with this fantastic film. The best way to compare Gilliam’s achievement is to a delirious dream happening before your very eyes. It is an uncompromising work, purposely delivered as a mess, I mean, how could it not be, with the tumultuous journey this film has had these last 25 years, Gilliam, quite frankly, doesn’t give a damn about failing. And so, he invites us to check logic at the door before entering the world of ‘Quixote.” Explanations take a backseat for the moment-to-moment chaos happening before our very eyes. Which results in some of the most personal filmmaking he’s done in more than two decades, with more than a few references to art and the creative here. In other words, this is a rejuvenation. Terry Gilliam, the auteur, is back because, it seems, like taking chances and possibly failing clearly excites him again. “Quixote” is a fearless movie that is easily his best work since his streak of films in the ’90s. He infuses his film with Gilliam-esque mayhem and set-pieces too outrageous to describe in a single passage. Mainstream audiences might not be pleased, but this is the Gilliam we used to love, the go-for-broke creative that refused to adhere to conventionality.
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