We don't do reviews. Because we firmly believe we can never judge another man's work of art. We could never be equipped well enough for that. Things are subjective, we know. One cannot generate a score and draw that dirty line between good and bad. And say. This is that and that ain't this.
I may be cheap to impress, more often than not, I love what I see than not-love. Though I might pretend the strength of sarcasm because love makes my knees weak, but I keep the margins wide, to err is beautiful. I am forgetting the point I was trying to make.
Works of art change the way I see. Breathe in and out. And if you know me, you should know that I talk like a maniac for a book that I have adored, more than adored, a movie that don't let me sleep. And this is an understatement. The effect is sometimes toxic, repeatedly addictive, I can't unhook me from what I love, from who I love. The latter is, another story. Anyway
I am in awe of mad geniuses. They rock my world, more, much more than perfectionists.
Getting back to the point, hold on. I found a movie, another movie, that I am gonna keep coming back to for a long time. It's nothing short of a treasure. Pulp fiction. Every time I watch it, I want to smooch John Travolta right out of the screen.
Work of art, joy forever.
PS: Not to be understood otherwise, title is a song from the movie. Google, at your own risk. Disclaimer. yeah, life's full of them.