The plot of Delta doesn’t so much unfold as languidly stumble through moments of startling visual grace—abetted intensely by the oneiric ruralism of the geography, a setting so singularly elysian one almost expects incest to hang as ripely from the vines as it did for Adam and Eve’s progeny—and equally jarring violence. There’s not much of an explanation for the brother-sister coupling at the core of the movie either, aside from its folkloric inevitability; Mihail (Félix Lajkó) returns to his mother’s hut after years of absence and finds her living with a sneering, chauvinistic lover (Sándor Gáspár) and a daughter, Fauna (Orsolya Tóth) whom Mihail seems to fall for from the moment she wipes the slaughtered porcine blood off her hands to offer him a chaste hug. Mundruczó attempts to move from there without filling in unnecessary details (or crucial ones, for that matter), concentrating instead on the photographic potential of his central conflict and his protagonists’ attempts to resolve it by building their own home above a majestic nearby river, but he operates a far less confident camera than Tarr does.