I didn't really get on with this Swedish film of the absurd, a sort of sub- Bunuel mixed with Python and something stranger still, in which the traffic is endless and the protagonist's son has gone crazy through writing poetry. It was one of Mike Leigh's favourite films (though for all I know he could have been kidding, as he also named the 1912 animation How a Mosquito Operates). In theory I should have liked it, it is my kind of cup of tea. I think maybe it was just too bleak.
The one thing that did make me laugh is the vendor of Christ effigies and the one which has lost a nail in one hand and so is just swinging side to side in the background.
Looks like it might have been shot in the perpetual twilight of winter.
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