Leningrad Cowboys Meet Moses

The Cowboys have fallen on hard times, down on their luck and stricken, forsaken, filiblustered.

They were once one of Mexico's most exhilarating acts, but after duelling with tequila incontestably, collapsed upon destitute ruin.

The band still exists however even if several of its members did not survive, those remaining somewhat revitalized after an invitation to play in New York.

But they've been tricked, hoodwinked, bamboozled, as they learn shortly after arrival, for Vladimir (Matti Pellonpää) their once loathsome manager turns out to have set up a ruse.

He seeks to once again rule them and lead them back to northern realms, and has awoken as a scandalous prophet who refers to himself as Moses.

The band is weary, downtrodden, aghast, and succumb to his ironclad will, which supplies a rickety motorboat for their journey across the Atlantic.

Meanwhile, he stays behind to chisel off spry Liberty's nose, before hitching a ride clasped and wingéd to the lonesome European coast.

They're reunited without much delay and are even joined by old school band members, and set off merrymaking homeward bound through less inhospitable continental climes.

But Vladimir hasn't failed to make headlines and he's become a wanted man.

And the law avails in hot pursuit as they actively gig hot damn.

Leningrad Cowboys Meet Moses adds significant layers and depth, to a narrative eclectically posturing with unyielding jocose inhibition.

A collection of wry self-reliant ideas intermittently staked uniformity notwithstanding, the story appealing to subsequent nodes which elucidate demonstrative beacon.

Sometimes the plot's surely secondary to verbose improvised momentum, providing adhesive broadened outlines which embrace reformed asymmetry.

For 'tis not argument Kaurismäki covets but rather offbeat ironic declension, messages bridled to slam dunk transparency as they softly sway in complement willow.

Enlivening inherent dimension through spatiotemporal interplay, it highlights disembodied ascension with aeronautic grassroots unconveyed.

A break from paramount logic resets and recasts judicious responsibility, inasmuch as too steady a jet stream cloys wise recourse clad indubitably.

Meet Moses takes its time to let loose but then settles to bewilder anew.

The Leningrad Cowboys are a real band apparently.

And still perform to this very day.

Leningrad Cowboys Go America

An unknown band communally flourishes in frozen northern realms, its upbeat traditional variety inspiring personal localized legend.

Yet their manager (Matti Pellonpää as Vladimir) has grown tired of just subsisting in grand obscurity, so he invites a well-known producer to evaluate offhand.

The results are by no means favourable although he provides constructive criticism, recommending a tour of America to showcase their zesty sound.

They've never left their cozy village and are unfamiliar with Western ways, yet they still seek widespread recognition and offbeat accolades.

Fortunately they learn swiftly and can make instantaneous adjustments, for their music doesn't inspire Manhattan and they're soon off for nimble Mexico.

Along the way they must jive and improvise according to regional preferences, for their finances lack exorbitance as they exercise in/congruity.

Their manager embraces capitalism and will not distribute that which they earn, their hunger erupting with molten fury as time slowly and thoughtfully passes.

They have learned the basics of English and can play anything they set their minds to, without ever rehearsing or even practising, acritical discursive maestros.

Yet they've been followed in spite of commands to the sincere vituperative contrary, the acolyte seeking a constructive role, aligned with indeterminate function.

Leningrad Cowboys Go America breaks things down to material instinct, while resilient spirits exuberantly chant, with extemporaneous unsung virtuosity.

And a Jim Jarmusch (Car Dealer) cameo.

Absurdity perhaps depicts the feisty subconscious of the aloud unspoken, but do such invigorations not surely emit down to earth realistic theatre?

If a dream is materially manifested and proceeds through spiritual trial and error, is comedy therefore strictly irrequisite to unpronounced disconsolate duty?

How else does the rational adroitly maintain well-reasoned logical dispassionate argument, if it hasn't been hewn by animate sacrifice born of consequent Kafkaesque rupture?

The Cowboys make their way South and forthrightly and freely excel, but if they had been an instant success, would they ever have even bothered?

Who knows?, it's difficult to say, we don't learn much about what they're thinking, just that they have a gig and they make it after versatile commiseration.

Presumably, so much is unsaid as potent difference decrees manifested.

At one point they present a resonant anthem.

Voltaic demonstrative poise.