I think sometimes ¿what the hell do I subscribe to Netflix for? Then, more by accident than anything--Certainly by no intelligent guidance from Netflix themselves--

I find myself watching a sloppy, maddening, utterly enthralling gem of a movie like Xenia, as I did last night, having, as it were, pulled it from the bottom of the heap--and I am completely reconciled with my dipshit movie-purveyor.  I would actually prefer, I think, that these would-be commercial whores (the Netflix company) remain having not a clue as to the intrinsic value, artistic or otherwise, of the movies they so randomly, relentlessly and insistently and for the most part insultingly ("We think you'd like...") throw at me.

This is a fucking wonderful movie, full of heart and intelligence, that I'll be thinking about and re-watching for the rest of my life.  A sort of a less tidy Almodóvar (boy are its ends loose!) is what it reminds me of, as grindingly Greek as Almodóvar is drillingly Spanish.  Some things I wonder--like the night-passage through the Vale of Tempe (where the laurel grows), such as aspirants for the laurels of Apollo have made for 3,000 years--if anybody (but me) understands how Greek.  Or even if I understand it.