Garbriel Garcia Marquez is, I reckon, a popular writer. I read one of his books many years ago and I finally realized I don't like literature that in any way belong under the heading of "an epic novel". "Family chronicle" - even worse. Unknowingly, tonight I went to watch a movie based on a Marquez novel. Cronaca di una morte annunciata by Francesco Rosi. At first, I was slightly impressed by the beautiful scenery and I started to think this might actually be a good movie. Rupert Everett, all right then. The film set out to elicit the finest, most delicate emotions in it's viewers by telling the story of a bunch of tragic, stone-faced men and their quest for honor and romance (A bunch of women, moving around like shadows or ghosts: looked at, raped, "loved"). At least two orchestras emphasizing the tragedy of it all - the oh-so-human-whatever.
This was bad, bad, bad. I take back everything I've ever said about you, Mel. Braveheart was, after all, er, a quite brilliant film - in comparison.
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