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"I wondered why so many people walked out of the cinema. They weren't as determined as I was to see what all the fuss was about. I stuck it out and can honestly say that I was conned into seeing it by Murdoch Press's (The Australian) movie reviewer who waxed lyrical about it. I think if they broke up the thing I saw into the docu, the movie, the poem and the self-indulgent throw-away of money by Pitt we might have been entertained. It bored me stiff, frankly. Sentimentality in a film (or novel, poem, story et al) is considered to be the sign of an amateur or a pretender. At least this one gave the poseurs amongst us a chance to show how stupid they are when it comes to judging a move. This movie should be prescribed by doctors for patients who have an excess of enthusiasm and anti-depression. Had I taken a sharp knife to the cinema I may well have stayed in my seat, a bloody mess, stiff as a board. Mallick and the wankers at Cannes ought to hang their bloody heads in shame."

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