Sorely underrated little film this, directed by the delicate brush strokes of Filippo Ottoni. Very few films make me openly weep. This one did. By the end my lip was trembling ever so violently, and my fluttering eyelashes prickled with tiny tears. Papa turned to me, quite abruptly, and said, "Travis, whatever is the matter?" "A fly," I whispered, my voice but a croak, "it flew into my orb." I couldn't be seen weeping in front of papa! The inestimable Christoper George gives another bravo performance. He rang me in the middle of the night after they'd wrapped, his voice quivering. "This is it," I remembered him exclaiming. "This is the one, Travis. This is the one."
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