You never walk into a film cold. You always carry something with you. These days, with them interwebs, it is even harder not too. Trailers tell every bit of a film, the days of mystery are gone. Yet, when you walk into a film about the Holocaust, no matter what the film's pedigree, there is a sense of foreboding. When you are walking into a Cannes Grand Prix winner and your fellow festival goers troop in with buckets of popcorn, frankly, I thought I was in the wrong cinema. I'd opted for a beer, which, as it turns out, was not strong enough.
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