Three worn-out words

After watching it, I was left with a succession of trading cards searing my retinas. Sleep was a lost cause. I crossed the gray night into the pink tip of dawn, gripped by an implacable carousel of dizzying images.

In the morning, sipping coffee in a feeble attempt to clear my mind, I was still consumed by the obsessive impressions of the night. Not a single coherent thought emerged — of course, that’s beside the point, or perhaps the very point itself. Just figures and silhouettes zigzagging in a whirlpool, and my puppet-self spinning right along.

What a question — of course I’m writing a review. Three worn-out words wrapped in emotional costume jewelry, plucked from some cheap ad. Done. There you have it—the secret lies in feeding the raw sense that prevails.

No wonder some Impressionists delivered the blockbusters of their time with furious brushstrokes hurled at the canvas. That was a century and a half ago, and yet cinema —and those commentators who keep clawing their way up the ranks— still employ the same rudimentary technique.