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Because the stars of this Czech movie are, one, the slim but curvy beauty of Anna Geislerová, who plays Marcela—a mother of two kids, wife of a down-and-out mechanic, daughter of a loving mother, stepdaughter of a diabetic pervert, and lover of a rich vintner—and, two, the dazzling, delicious, delightful cinematography of Jan Malír, I will replace my review of the film's content and meaning (beautiful bodies and cinematography have no meaning) with a reproduction of the poem that inspired its script, Robert Graves's "Beauty in Trouble" (beautiful poetry has no meaning).
Beauty in trouble flees to the good angel
On whom she can rely
To pay her cab-fare, run a steaming bath,
Poultice her bruised eye;
Stranger Personals
Will not at first, whether for shame or caution,
Her difficulty disclose;
Until he draws a cheque book from his plumage,
Asking her how much she owes;
(Breakfast in bed: coffee and marmalade,
Toast, eggs, orange-juice,
After a long, sound sleep—the first since when?—
And no word of abuse.)
Loves him less only than her saint-like mother,
Promises to repay
His loans and most seraphic thoughtfulness
A million-fold one day.
Beauty grows plump, renews her broken courage
And, borrowing ink and pen,
Writes a news-letter to the evil angel
(Her first gay act since when?):
The fiend who beats, betrays and sponges on her,
Persuades her white is black,
Flaunts vespertilian wing and cloven hoof;
And soon will fetch her back.
Virtue, good angel, is its own reward:
Your dollars were well spent.
But would you to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediment? 
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I now realize that Mudede is almost as huge an idiot, though with as large an ego...if not larger.
This was not a review. Not even a critique. This is almost that of somebody who walked out of the movie and had nothing to say.
Boring.
lips
grips
chips
Thank you. Where can I pick up my paycheck?
--Charles Mudede
Why bother calling it a film review if it really is neither a review nor, really, too much about the film?
This is like a blog post posing as a review. And Chaz is laughing about how easy it was to write something that so many people are going to think is PROFOUND and ORIGINAL when it clearly is just plagiarism.
I'd like to hear it.
When outside the icy rain
Comes leaping helter-skelter,
Shall I tie my restive brain
Snugly under shelter?
Shall I make a gentle song
Here in my firelit study,
When outside the winds blow strong
And the lanes are muddy?
With old wine and drowsy meats
Am I to fill my belly?
Shall I glutton here with Keats?
Shall I drink with Shelley?
Tobacco’s pleasant, firelight’s good:
Poetry makes both better.
Clay is wet and so is mud,
Winter rains are wetter.
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