A painter. In a Spanish Empire region. Birth of a masterpiece. Lights, shadows, eve and evening of a world. Gorgeous cast. Minimalist interpretation. A masterpiece. In many measure but more exactly, just a meditation. About time, cruelty, sense of life, sacrifices, blindness, miller and crosses, ages, love and punishment, innocence, fight and presence of Christ in every crumb of day. Not the beautiful images, not the precise acting are key. Not the mothers or sketches, music or marches of conquerors are secret, But only silence. The silence as spine of words. The silence of Saint Mary, Mother of God , wife of Bruegel, mirror of time waves before crucifixion. Behind pulling on wheel. Behind dance as blood of land. Behind each face and each gesture. The movie is not history of a painting. It is a poem about basic feelings and never end fight. Or, maybe, just a delicate wing of a butterfly or injured bird.
Review of The Mill and the Cross
