August propitious enveloping cocoon, swath the embellished confiding ruckus in lavender pretence corresponding can do.
Zodiac.
A mockery.
A complete lack of concern wickedly blended with seditious witness guides Il racconto dei racconti (Tale of Tales) as it dismally lampoons heroic adventure with self-deprecating panache and oblivious tender.
Viscidly challenging you to care for its bland, boring, banal, and bumptious characters, it insolently reminds you that you still haven't left the theatre.
The cinematography's compelling enough (Peter Suschitzky), stating the natural beauty contained herewithin is abundantly more profound than anything these stories have to offer, yet we wrote narratives anyways to illuminate our genuine contempt, for you, asinine aperture, belittle the ebb and flow.
Care for nothing.
Salacious stasis.
The foundations for something more tantalizing laid waste by exasperating lassitude.
Do absolutely nothing, harvest excessive applause.
Galavanting circuitry, crusading camp.
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