There’s this story that when Salman Rushdie read The Adventures of Augie March, he thought he was finished with writing. “What’s the point,” he asked a colleague, “when everything’s already in there?” La Flor: six chapters, fourteen hours, five intermissions, one film. What Wagner called gesamtkunstwerk, “the consummate artwork of the future,” the total work of art. Theatrical, poetic, operatic, painterly, novelistic. Of course cinematic, or post-cinematic. (At one point even pre-cinematic.) In the end it is remarkable not for its length but, because it contains everything, for its concision. The whole world, a lifetime’s experience. I don’t really know what to say. Maybe my new favourite movie?