With their mountains, hills and meadows, the landscapes of the Caucasus valleys are open books. The locals like to listen and talk. They read and act out poems, celebrating love and nature. Yet all this harmony, all this hope in the future...See moreWith their mountains, hills and meadows, the landscapes of the Caucasus valleys are open books. The locals like to listen and talk. They read and act out poems, celebrating love and nature. Yet all this harmony, all this hope in the future, is broken by the sudden irruption of the present. A tale stamped by a 'mise en scene' that would also have pleased Straub and Paradjanov. Written by
anonymous
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