Shamanism. A trance state. Initiation. France? The shaman has three arms, oh, and a wing from behind his shoulder.
The breath of the candle lights up.
Sometimes I don’t recognize myself.
And the soul opens, bursts, sings
Contact with the religious cults of the peoples of the world is always interesting. Especially when the picture stands out staged scenes. Here, exactly. Realistic to the point. Without scraps, without aba as well as something to blind, just to indicate, just to show the viewer. It's the spirit of work. Yes, yes, exactly. But sometimes, walking only at the top, not focusing on the process, on the procedure, many "secondary" omitting, the authors themselves are deprived of the color of the work, and the discontent awaken the public. Painting without detail. Superficial mess. An unsettled trinket is brought to trial.
In fact, if we took the topic into circulation, did not find time to properly work on the material? To feel it, to feel it, to enjoy it want to be located at the screen. The author does not deceive our expectations. Harmonious alloy in front of us. A fusion of the personal with the mysterious. Secret, if you will. We are entering a world of mystery. An unknown world. And we dissolve in it.
The shaman family is a whole universe. In their own environment, the womb of the tribesmen - respect and worship them. And how else, with any problem, you can go to the doctor. Sure will. Always will. Westerners are skeptical. Shamans? You, what? What century do you live in that? Aren't they charlatans? A vestige of past dark times. Don't be ridiculous! Theatre of one artist in kamlaniya dances. . .
. The shaman has three hands, oh, the world is like a dark hall.
On the palms of gold, oh, painted eyes.
Sees a pink dawn, before the sun itself
It seemed like he was asleep, ooh, and he didn't know anything. . .
France and Belgium have created a joint, rather entertaining project called the Big World. An hour and a half on shamanism. An hour and a half to deepen into the world of the Mongolian hinterland. Europe and Asia at the intersection of civilizations, cultures, observations, reflections. What is our society? Aquarium? And who are we in it then? Boundaries? Visible and invisible. Do they exist? Real? Or are they just a fantasy fruit?
Somewhere out there, far away, almost on the outskirts of the world, on the border of the steppe and forest zones, in the yurt, lives the eastern coast. The incident leads to her abode a young, attractive Parisian. The ceremony with the invocation of spirits under the shaman's tambourine, trance state and "disciple for don Juan" found... There she is. Well, here it is.
The dirt is not washed off the skin, only fear is no more.
So the passerby calmed down, looking surprised.
And the movement is awkward, as if from a mousetrap,
It was like a mousetrap, it just broke out. . .
The spirits pointed to the case. The spirits chose an assistant. Corinne's gifts are obvious. She's tomorrow's shaman. Her path is predetermined... Is that possible? Is that true? What? What? What? What's so stupid? Where is France and where is Mongolia? Is this a joke? Chanel is there, deer manure is here... I don't like the inflorescence. . .
And the interesting part begins. How do you feel about what happened? How do you treat everything? A well-thinking Westerner goes to a doctor. Aren't I sick? Am I okay? No tumor in your head? Examine me. And so on, and so on, and so on. Well, that makes sense. Very logical... But the shaman wasn't born yesterday either. Where will the vector of a woman’s fate swing? Right? Left?
. Three words before the fall, the second for the birth,
For the second birth, drink until midnight alone.
And in the chest alternately, there was ash, then a diamond.
It was an arrogant thing, the night squinted the eye.
And the movement is awkward, as if from a mousetrap,
It was like a mousetrap, it just broke out.
We're back in Mongolia. And again, we're in the same place. And together with Korin, we learn the basics of folk wisdom of this bizarre ethnos. Words here from the mouth - rare in beauty pearls. The pearls of wisdom. Pearls of truth. You just have to listen. You just have to open yourself up a little bit. . .
I want to thank the director for the amazing beauty of the picture presented to us all. Wild nature with rolls of hilly bare steppe plain is replaced by peaks of conifer in the green color of a bizarre still life. Here you can hear the noise of a cold stream at the feet and deer roaring near. The faces of the local aborigines are friendly and colorful in their pristine luno-eyed latitude of cheekbones. Smiley, quirky in the eye, cute. . .
The tape breathes life. The mental pain of the main character scars from frame to frame in the passage. And with it, we, the audience, are updated.
And no longer cripples, the laughter of polished fools.
He jumped on her shoulders, a wet angel from the clouds.
Motion. . .
And the movement is awkward, as if from a mousetrap,
It was like a mousetrap, it just broke out. . .
Thanks for the movie. Thanks for the shaman's tambourine. Thanks for the vargan. A session of deep meditation in a trance state, just shook.
A film that can be brought to the beloved. And revisit it over time. Should I recommend it to someone I know? Why not?
8 out of 10