If I were only fact based the book of books in literature would be the Manhattan phone directory. Four million entries, everything correct. But it dusts[?] out of my ears and I do not know do they dream at night? Does Mr. Jonathan Smith cry in his pillow at night? We do not know anything when we check all the correct entries in the phone directory. I'm not this kind of a filmmaker. I'm not this kind of a filmmaker(4:33-5:10)


Very frustrating! This is all I see


And given that I saw Cave of Dreams (or whatever it was called) without knowing what it was I have very definite opinions about Mr Herzog at the moment. Ah well, in essence these are that his greatest aptitude is self-parody so it's possible even the Colbert Report can't out-herzog him.

Well it was very interesting seeing the above mentioned "documentary" without being sure what it was. That was rather trippy because of the unreadable dialogue between documentary signifiers and, for want of a better term, wtf. So the effect was exactly to make me think quite a lot about what I want from a documentary.

I recommend seeing it as long as you strengthen your appreciation of the absurd. A friend who saw it was so furious with Herzog for fucking up the only chance anyone will apparently ever get to film inside the cave that she nearly had an embolism.

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