I could launch into a pretentious faux-literary review of the movie and point out its wonderful tapestry of textures, colors and characters, but frankly I find movie reviews, often by failed screenwriters, to be as useless as tits on a bull. Or, for my advertising friends, qualitative focus groups.
I remember my introduction to film pretension came in college. In my senior year I signed up for a course in film history with the esteemed Dr. Arthur LeGacy, who droned on about the difference between the "really real" and the "really reel." You can't make shit like that up.
I didn't care for Dr. LeGacy. And I cared for him even less when he failed me for the course, leaving me three necessary credits short for graduation. He claimed I never turned in the final assignment: a 3 minute film.
The fact is, I turned in the film. He might not of liked the short tale of a young man who ejaculated through his nose every time he sneezed (for a 21-year old that's what passed for clever), but I spent many nights shooting and editing that cinematic masterpiece. And I had the receipts to prove it. So I arranged a sit-down with the chairman of the Film Department and showed him evidence of my hard work.
Professor LeGacy was forced to admit that he had lost a boxful of final projects, offer me an official apology and change my grade to a passing C. Bringing me to 120 credits and a GPA of 2.21, one-one hundreth of a point over the bare minimum for getting a sheepskin at Syracuse University.
To this day I still have nightmares about the LeGacy affair. And have cursed his name accordingly. But a Google search reveals that Dr. LeGacy got very ill last year and now sleeps with the fishes. So there's no need to besmirch his name.
God Bless you, Dr. LeGacy.