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How, indeed. The fire falls on Maren Mcguire’s chiseled cheekbones with mingled severity and grace, as Joe Haege launches unending spitting tirades of passionate rage, the words of which are quickly slurred into slo-mo and drowned in a woozy wave of drones and drumbeats. Religious reveries, firelit orgies, and more than one smoking gun punctuate the long black-and-white silences of the stark, stunning film that Hollywood Theatre will show next Monday. How t...

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