Western

Sick again, for the umpteenth time this month, feverish, nauseated, generally miserable, and instead of sleeping I spend my afternoon watching this old favourite. Pierced me right through. It does that every time. Something so fragile, so innocently gut-wrenching about it. Hope is such a very fine silky thread, isn't it? And yet it will knit such thick warm shawls of melancholy.

You can hear a bit of Bernardo Sandoval's soundtrack here (although not the best moment, when Sacha Bourdo does his own rendition of Rosenbaum's 'Gluxari'; I remember watching this movie for the first time years ago and debating with myself throughout whether he was really Russian (as his character) or a fake, and then in the last ten minutes of the movie, he just picked up this kid's guitar and suddenly his voice lost all its foreignness (is that even a word?), and my Russian blood broke out in song). I'll shut up now, and let you listen...