There are points in this film where I was totally convinced that Angelopoulos was astonished at his own profundity. The scene with the Lenin statue turning slowly in the boat goes on and on and on. And nothing happens. It is a shot of Lenin's head and hand. It occured to me that is was supposed to be profound, but it wasn't. This film is so slow, so heavy-handed, and so unforgivably arty that it's almost humorous. There was clearly a big problem with the translation of dialogue, and the characters speak in poetics. They are not real people. No one here is. This is like the longest, most arty home film ever made. Angelopoulos puts the viewer in his living room and runs his most personal movie for the viewer for THREE hours, and gives us nothing in return. Nothing to think about, barely anything to feel. And to think he was upset at not winning the Golden Palm. This is almost as appalling as his next film, Eternity and a Day.