We need to put this film into more comprehensible terms. A girl reaches puberty and has her first period. At the same time a band of travelling players enters her home town. They are joined by a group of missionaries. Both will entertain the inhabitants for a week. There are to be many stories, much licentious behaviour, some sermons and plenty of ascetic bloodletting. The burning of witches is set to be the highlight of these seven tumultuous days. Put into such workaday prose the picture is clear: the Lord of Misrule has come to this medieval town.
Wednesday, 25 February 2015
Friday, 13 February 2015
I’m falling asleep. Not work. Not the company of bores. Not even the after-effects of an opening night in bed with a beautiful woman. No. The usual culprits are not to blame. It is art, yes, the very thing that should be keeping me awake, who is today’s criminal. To be more precise: it is this film, The Colour of Pomegranates, that is guilty of this most serious of crimes. It is too rich. We eat a king’s meal of thirteen courses, and the belly wears the crown. My poor mind! Smothered with snoozes, it is reduced to dreaming for this obese master. Such a terrible servitude. My stomach rules my imagination. I am satiated with imagery.