why there will be no review today

[rushthatspeaks]

There was going to be. I have the list of books to write up and everything.

But then sovay and I watched The Color of Pomegranates, directed by Sergei Parajanov, and now officially the most impressive thing that can be streamed off Netflix, in the sense that it was brilliant, and we lay about for a while staring at the ceiling and having the following conversation:

One of us: "So. Sheep."

The other: "Yep. Chickens."

"Red."

"Gold. That was maybe kind of like a Tarot deck with a set of symbols I've never encountered."

"I know we said we wanted to watch a weird movie with a blind angel, but that was when I thought we were watching Barbarella."

"Amazing horsemanship."

"Yeah. Do you think it would have helped if either of us actually knew Armenian?"

"Not remotely. I do not have the ethnological training to figure out whether that movie was as weird as it seems."

"Books weeping water."

"Peter Greenaway saw this movie."

"It's like a series of Orthodox icons done as tableaux vivants."

"That had an erotic bobbin-lace-making scene."

"I know. It was genuinely hot."

"Red."

"I find myself thinking of it as an art museum and not a movie. You know the way you wander through museums concentrating intensely on things."

"How did they let him get away with this in 1968 in the Soviet Union? *consults Wikipedia* Oh. They didn't. Labor camp, huh."

"There is a review on imdb that just says 'after this movie I had a headache and collapsed'. Fair enough."

"We have to watch all of Pasolini now."

"I think we just discovered the Tilda Swinton of Armenia."

"Sheep."

And then I thought about my list of books, and the next one is Angels in America. Fuck that. I'm going to bed.

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