This film is compressed insomnia fumes. A zombie trance superimposed over The Wizard of Oz. This film is the wind gently whipping sand in your face during a solar eclipse. Your conscious mind says knock that shit off, while your subconscious mind says “more please!”

Sitting here looking out the window on a jet black 16 degree January night, I suppose I can appreciate the Russian bowels from which this seeped up into the ether. The decades of quiet desperation permeate every frame of this beautiful, yet impenetrable masterpiece. The magnitude of it is unbearable. I currently have an unsettling feeling that somewhere in some windswept Siberian snowdrift there’s a weathered middle-aged man who would go down on a lawman for a gallon of gasoline and a ham sandwich.

Is it weird that I couldn’t decide if I should watch this movie or Johnny Be Good tonight?

Swartacus liked these reviews