November 12, 2017

One of those rare times

The Color of Pomegranates (Sergei Parajanov, 1969). This astonishing exercise in film-as-poetry is one of those very rare times (you can count them on one hand) when you feel that cinema has revealed a world that existed long before cinema, in some corner of the world that has gone largely unseen (also, for me, Pasolini’s Medea, Murnau’s Nosferatu). Not just in its images and sights, observed in a detached and almost impersonal way, but its belief systems, its thoughts, its superstitions, its general air of being impossible to reach now. Even more than that, actually: it showed a different way of doing cinema.