After Goya ,modern painting begins.-Andre Malraux

Francisco De Goya , painter of the great consterning spanish troubles,the haughty queen and his beloved Cayetana ,and brought with him this inexplicable theatrical atmosphere to life;harrowed,troubled,jarring .
This movie although incomparable in my view in lighting and techniques of dramatic storytelling washed away the tactile facts of Goya in the rendition of his mystery and eccentricity.His theatrical using of the sets and constant subtle shifts in atmosphere and lighting dreams ones way through this spectacle. The flavour of Goya,his dark deliberations ,line this gallery one walks down , sensuous and rich ,pulsating with the heart of his paintings.
Here's what i think of the first scene . Tremendous skill and thought with the set design , lighting and props.
Goya - the movie.

A sickly green grey of loose, strewn, disturbed earth.darkness streaming away in twisting , meandering tributaries, silting the earth to laterite. a slow red of the spanish arena smeared in the dirt. rufous red.a guttural oppressed red.A gnawed out ,glistening,bull-head blood.

A sunlight pale yellow-pink washed mercilessly through the stagnant glans and graceful curve of its horn. a foliage reflected green stirred with yellow spilt rays .Sinuous rills of a tangled rope ,a silent adulterous adventurer,tasting the intoxicating, coagulating shadows and the dutiful open sun in the same delusional breath. Deaf shadows of the sun tame the ephemeral light.

A hacked sense lays lamely in a shivering pan like bulls feet , a passive critic of its surroundings.It rises relentlessly, strenuous, delirious red; clenching lest it burst into scarlet.
Lays its tired head on the headless bull and recedes to its heavy ,dragged ,permeating stench.

It hangs there, old and weary from death, insides emptied and ghoulishly faced Goya emerging from its smooth organs a weary traveller in his undistinguishable double-faced reality.He wakes in startlingly real white sheets ,panacea to his ugly contours.The red of the bull red earth splashed on his wall.An effortless spiral of life in frost carved by his own hands.

He turns, his breath laboured, breathing with him is a blue enveloping aura; overpowering the red walls ,glowing them in a ghostly black Cayetana walking slowly out of his heaving room.He follows ,forelight surrendering to backlight, and his screened image walking behind the translucent wall to a ironically white corridor leading to his yearning past.Hallway to his longing .
He stops at a side door.A room with chequered black and white tiles being scrubbed by a devout servant , with two dead geese dripping into a yellow bucket alongside two red apples and grapes in a bowl .Slowly he walks on.

Thrust out in the open bustling road , his frightened eyes rise with a measured defiance with the neighing horse of hallowed convention.Cayetana. Ah!Sweet Cayetana gracefully walks away with his weak pleading questions . A yearning for one, deep and delirious once again finally uttered on his undessiderated deathbed.