Like flowers the ice crystals on the window sparkle in the winter sun, transform into a sunny field of daffodils. Spring. Early-morning, low sun between rows of straight, rough-barked pines flashes as the camera moves. Treeless, snowy, dead flat land with a horizon straight as a ruler. A single tiny black dot is the only thing that moves: a troika carrying away love. Lingering images like these tell us that Yuri Zhivago is a poet, and that David Lean is a great film director. I watched Doctor Zhivago this weekend for the first time in decades. We cried and cried. It is […]
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