Oh. My. Emir.

I heart Emir Kusturica, and was shaking when I saw this article in the NYT this morning:

…[O]ver the last 10 years, the man whom his fans see as the heir to Fellini’s impassioned exuberance has been asked about his politics almost as much as his movies. And at times, he loses his patience for it. So, in Cannes: why didn’t he speak up against Milosevic?
”Nobody’s perfect,” he said.
When he’s not being questioned by reporters or touring as a guitarist in his popular Balkan gypsy-punk-rock band, Kusturica (pronounced KOOS-toor-eet-sa) now spends most of his time in a small village in western Serbia he has recently had constructed from scratch. He’s a big man, standing 6-foot-3, with a powerful chest and a potent set of shoulders, and there is an amiable menace to the way he moves; he has a reputation as a brawler and a firebrand, but, relaxing in his village, where I visited him recently, he comes off more like a gentle papa or, sometimes, a beneficent feudal lord.
… To his critics, Kusturica is an apologist and propagandist for the murderous forces that devastated his country.

You must rent his films, and watch them one by one. He had a village built from scratch, for fuck’s sake.

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