It’s an inherently watchable thing despair, humbling and comforting as it is, in hopes that whatever kernel of compassion we extend to our fellow sufferer onscreen might be something we learn to hold onto for ourselves. More than a mite irresponsible, though, and – maybe worse as far as movies go – boring, I think, to embed this sort of navelgazing in a false equivalency between revolutionary violence and the mundane operation of imperial power, cast as sides of man’s (sic) cruelty. Talk about beating a dead horse! Poor thing. Speaking of which: The white horse was meant to be a sight gag, yes? I couldn’t be sure in this “funny” self-serious slog. I am sure I’d’ve been better off believing myself when I clocked this for the miserable shit it is and gone ahead as I’d intended watching Dracula’s Fiancée or Erotic Nights of the Living Dead or whatnot like someone with an apparently rare lust for this one good life we’ve been given. Instead, I’m supposed to be chopping onions for Barry Keoghan’s Forrest Gump? Wouldn’t it be nice! Let’s see some heart! Get a little wild! Having written all this, I feel compelled to say I have no ill will for those of you who saw this and found love in a hopeless place. One foot in front of the other!