Silent movies, unless they have Charlie Chaplin tramping about, are mostly grotesque. Modern-day movies that are filmed deliberately as though they were made in the during the silent era are weird. If they're also about Canadians playing hockey––to fight the commies––moreover, a brand of Canadians who express their inner longings by murdering everybody's mothers and fathers and abortion-performing-cross-dressers, well, I do believe the word might be bafflingly gay. That's the thing I've found about arty movies: they're disruptive, which is good because they spin the mirror in a way you ain't spun it before, but often they're also boring because you can't quite fully enter the madness on the first spin of the carousel. So I think a film like this deserves a second viewing but I'd prefer not to. B- Koko: Been reading "Bartleby," young scrivener? From now on I believe I'll call you Ginger Nut.
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