Although not even eighty minutes long, Color of Pomegranates feels like more than enough film to cover the span of an entire life, much more than enough, like an hour and fifteen minutes more. While I was watching it I thought it would never end, after it had finished I almost forget I had ever seen it.
About the only thing Parajanov manages to accomplish here is to establish himself as the poor man's Tarkovsky, all of the pretense but none of the execution. While Tarkovsky truly understood the medium, allowing him to skirt the outer edges of structure without making an ass of himself, Parajanov seems to view cinema as a toy. Jump cut after jump cut allows a feeling of emptiness to creep in, the film making feels shallow, over embellished and even unnecessary.
This is a lyrical film, not a narrative one, but the question of rather it was I who couldn't overcome my own sanity and embrace it or if Parajanov's lack of ability is to blame, is to me irrelevant. The answer is likely some combination of the two, and by any event I didn't enjoy the picture.
Tangentially, for any Armenians out there, is that really what your language looks like? Was that some kind of absurd font or do you live in Middle Earth? If that really is what your language looks like, when you look to Western Europe and wonder why they're doing so much better than you, perhaps you should blame the man who thought elvish was an appropriate style of alphabet.