I went to LACMA for the only showing at the Tarkovsky retrospective that I could make it to, Andrei Rubliev. It was just as long as I had hoped it would be, and then a little bit more than that even. Behind us a girl I knew and her mother spoke in Russian. I thought of the things that they heard that I could not as we watched the movie. Their mouths were the same pouted shape of the protoganist whose invented biography disjointedly was relayed. It was violent, implied, as actors had throats slashed by Tatars, clutching tubes to their necks so that dark grey fluid would pump across their white necks and onto the equally grey mud.