Keoma!

 

A little time to fill... a little spot of time to kill... a rime and reason for things to think... bending heaven and earth for a morsel to drink.

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The titanic turbo MKL, perhaps the greatest and most unknown of existential failures, pushing dust, watering daisies, taken up in an afterlife, the second heaven, somewhere between receiving that red mark, and having finished his paper, somewhere in the collegiate indeterminate strain between doing and knowing, in the space intermediate, so much of life falls into that void of vacuum, so much of life is drawn in and taken up: subliminated in the dream work of a world somewhat wide awake and laying in the sun, perhaps yet praying for even more sleep.

Upson Watt and Teddy Etchwasser, come calling sometime in the brainstorming of the afternoon, and the fronds, and the birdsong, and the other things, Teddy and Upson, kind of a dink water of the thing, kind of tea-colored stuff that makes the sand underneath look like biscuit-flesh; his query both and neither, like a man thirsts perhaps for nothing in particular but for something that lack aridity.

Enzo said the Spaghetti Western was kaput at the time, and this one, a great big 85-minute homage to all before, and a hand wave in salute, gratitude.  I honestly thought Sergio Corbucci made this one, but I'm a degenerate in a space filled with people with master's degrees, an armchair guy, me, while Castellari is the do-er, the prime mover of the piece, and I only but one pair of eyes lent to his work.

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