







Some films meet you halfway. This one stands on a distant hill, arms folded, and waits to see if you’re worthy. I admire the nerve of it. I also spent a fair chunk of the evening feeling like I’d been invited to a funeral where nobody tells you who died.
I can’t fault the craft. Angelopoulos stages history like a slow-moving pageant: villages forming, families scattering, crowds shifting across water. The long shots are choreographed with such care that you start reading the horizon the way you’d read dialogue.
The humans inside those beautiful frames often feel sealed behind glass. The story delivers its tragedies right on schedule, but the film holds you at arm’s length, so grief becomes an idea rather than a punch.
I’m glad I watched The Weeping Meadow, but I’m not sure I quite got or felt it.