Years and years ago, Pier Paolo Pasolini would have solved this 116 minutes film with one sentence: "Death does not mean a lack of communication; it is the impossibility of being understood."

And while this concept (twisted, distorted, disfigured) still remains interesting enough, Tornatore's prolix (plain redundant right there in the middle) writing swings between borderline creepy and full-on cheesy.

Among the tear-jerking treacle, his pseudo-philosophical, re-adjusted to the contingency, take on astronomy -- dead stars and all -- is accurate and poetic enough, and really the only element (almost) giving the movie an appearance of tightness, thickness and consistency in its back and forth, back and forth rhythm.