What a pity that a product of another's imagination is mannah for mine. Maybe I am simply too much of an egotist. Two great movies in a row did this to me.
I didnot see either one in its entirety. That is what I call the sign of perfection. Incompleteness.
I went into deep thought while I sat unassumingly in my black leather sofa, all sticky, on a highly hot, horrendously humid day.
I saw a quarter of the first movie, a quarter of which I understood. The movie symbolized the limitedness of movies over theatre. Doing thus, it excelled as a movie alongwith shunning the medium. What a tragical parody. It captured the impossible.
The 2nd flick was about french artists. Painters.
Men of steel...correction...alloys...I wished I was around them many centuries ago. I wished I were french. Expectedly, I missed the climax. So much for perfection!
I see part of my virtual home in each of the movies I watch. The dilapidated wooden stool, with a pregnant palate resting on it, was mine. It was borrowed for the movie it seemed.
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