The novel baring the same name is fabulous. It is filled up with depth and meaning of profound allusions. The script out of it is flat deprived from the richness of life of emotions. But what is worse in the film is the direction. If there is any. The beauty of the plot is set like amateur play with pale acting and unconvincing appearances with the only exception the incredible Miki Manoilovic. I really wonder if the author Troyanov could possible like the film having the same title as the lovely novel. It sounds more like an offense to claim it is on the same oeuvre. Poor Troyanov deserves a much adequate work for cinema to be able to compete to the power of his imagination and not this nonsense.
