Reflections Are Erratic

Dzaferelli and Visconti. The list world at the bottom of the Como lake. Dario Fo, his subtle humor that went into sand and cliffs. Acrid nostalgia of the elated cinema of last decades. Nothing will return. No country in the world may offer anything upmost like that, instead. Not even my home Russia where the names of Parajanov and Ioseliani are irrevocably lost. The lost feneration is one before us. We mourn of the remnants and tge traces of symbolism. We lost the sketchery of elated postmodernism. We were left paradigmas of upper genres, but we lost them, after refugees, social turmoils and racial blendings. We overlooked our higher culture. My last strife concerns the silver age up screened, the  Russian symbolism in plots. It is a panorama of the grief of the last century and a half. It is an effort to embrace the firm but brisk rootage, the entire rootage, of postmodernism that had been granted to our arrogance in arts. We keep our genres forgetting that they are inherited, that the best had already occurred. The remark by Anna Polibina-Polansky, Moscow. datteri@yandex.ru; +79296-605-605.