This lyrical, poetic masterpiece of cinematic art sucks you into the minds and souls of a still enigmatic, clannish culture, as Stephane, the urbanised, DAT-carrying Frenchman confronts both his own Western attitudes and the wistful, dogged independence of an oft persecuted race. The veracity of the work borders on cinema verite, such is the power of the performances coaxed with consummate skill by writer/director Tony Gatlif, himself a Romany, from a largely non-professional cast.
The plot hardly bears mentioning, as this is an exemplar of film as art, i.e. an exploration of the human spirit. One could wax lyrical about Stephane's mission to find the gypsy singer who's voice chicken skins him as a journey into his own psyche, or other such pyschobabble, but ultimately, even though framed by a love story and imbued with classical dramatic elements of pathos, comedy and tragedy, through all the elements that make film such a singular artistic vehicle - sound, music, image, performance - this work envelops you in swaddling-cloth, twists at the core of your soul, and vicariously makes you pursue the Holy Grail of the meaning of life.
I can't claim to have seen anything in at least a year, probably dating back to "Welcome to the Dollhouse", that has touched me in the way that this work did. For all those who think that trite eye candy like "Saving Private Ryan" represents a milestone in cinema art, an education moment in the company of Stephane and his collective muse will persuade you that true artistic creativity lies in exposing the seemingly mundane banalities that constitute our daily lives.
