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Rating:
The Western idea of cinematic representation miserably founders in front of this "thing" by Paradjanov. Inconsiderately, the pomegranate reveals the deep misery of the other "staging", rational, chronological, relating to facts, based on conforming images and words, consolatory, plutocratic regime cinema serving to produce tacit consent.
Here nothing is dumped on our shoulders, and that's already a good team play, but there is even a proposition that harks back to the dawn of time and speaks directly to our real intangible part, comforting it for the violence suffered over time from psychic possessions and bodily tortures. That ruby red creates an island for human entities that have narrowed the gap between soul and body, putting things in their divine place, giving us the necessary centering to continue the evolutionary path of transformation.
The recognition of what we need, stripped of the deceiving ego's waste, is comparable to the visions we have at the immediate moment of passing, the film that plays before us is the film Sergej knows: only the magnificence of the Divine within us is brought as continuity in the Hereafter, transforming the errors that are in fact cleansed in the passage from the recognition of our inner God, thus reiterating knowledge and evolution.
What greater gift, from the director, to represent the purity of such a clear confession that it becomes intangible, ruling out misleading associations, inviting the engagement in non-thought to find oneself in a free zone where everything is as it must be.
Through the limited use that befits the cinematic medium, Paradjanov succeeds in making the soul feel the images of consciences flowing on the screen, not just of human beings. The ancient infinity is represented through objects, colors, carpets, movements that replay the "promenade des etoiles". The pantomime and silence create the glue that squares the circle and a transcendental cradle rocks us into "rarefied zones of being". The dream is exchanged for reality, restoring the immediate.
It goes without saying that the awareness of the union may escape young souls, but it doesn't matter. Here is played a game where there can be no competition except in our impersonal vanity's yearning in the identification of that one path leading to the "sacred mountain", in the pursuit of the ascensional leap.
The Armenian's proposal, like all definitive things, is ruthless, here the aim is to be, not appear, once and for all cutting off supplies to parasitic energies that assume us in the cotton wool of lies.
The film flows inevitably making its psychic but also physical victims in the theater. In some passages, there are peaks of catharsis that seem to have been there for millions of years where I understand why they can weary more than one of the audience: will it be ignored? It doesn't matter. Will it be condemned? Misunderstood? It doesn't matter.
The extent of sacredness will settle even on those who will argue against this vision with seemingly plausible arguments, yet still limited by a perception of tangible reality: it is not easy, searching for a grip in everything, to find none, thus discarding the privilege of inhabiting the nothing that we need. Everyone has their own journey, for all, the time will come sooner or later, eternity is on our side.
Obviously, the mystical delirium set up by our prankster is waxed with that impersonal mystification, essential in sealing the obscene, where one slides into missed enlistments, with an absolute refusal beforehand. The knockout we receive is concealed with millenary cotillion.
The work, opposed by the ever-present inhuman inquisition, even if mutilated by censorship, wins its battle by flooding petrified surfaces with the superhuman, erasing any acceptance of challenge, fleeing divisions.
Here is the heart of Jesus and it shines for everyone...
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