I saw the film only yesterday, yet my impression at the end of it has not changed. It is certainly a film containing beautiful images of snow covered plains and wastelands in Mongolia. And in the beginning there is some promise of yet another quiet, elegiac tale of wide plains, nomads and their wisdom. But this quietist expectation soon is shattered, and the viewer, together with the film's protagonists, is thrown out of this sub-zero garden of Eden. What follows still remains beautiful and striking in its imagery, but annoyed me more and more because of the loosening up of the structure and ever more unexpected twists and turns, until, really, I reached the point where it got very hard to be bothered at all. Though I am not against experiments and boldness, this attempt at a poetic film of a conflict between tradition and modernity was lost on me, mainly because its makers apparently could not decide between impressionist documentary, expressionist story-telling and a superficial interest for the folklore of the supernatural.
