Our angle looks straight up. Now an angle looking steeply down: the snow falls not quite dead away to collect on a foreground chimneypot and on the little shtetl street that lies maplike below us. It is night, and quiet, and the street is deserted except for one man who walks away from us, his valenki squeaking in the fresh snow. He carries bundled branches on one shoulder and has a hatchet tucked into his belt. We cut down to street level. The man walks toward us, bearded, and bundled against the cold.
Larry Gopnik : It's a long account. Sy Ableman : Do you alcoholic drink wine? Because this is an absurd bottle. This is not Mogen David. This is a - heh heh - a wine, Larry. A Bordeaux. Larry Gopnik : You know, Sy Sy Ableman : Open it. Accede to it breathe.
We have that well of tradition en route for draw on, to help us absorb. When we're puzzled we have altogether the stories that have been handed down from people who had the same problems. In the whole film he doesn't do anything. Not a good deal of anything, anyway. He just wants to understand what is happening en route for him.