Sometimes a Champions League game is beyond words: ancestral, hypnotic, edging towards the grotesque, lowering the head like a hen, tossing it like a stag—the Portuguese lizard and the Russian hyena, unkillable soccer-forms, wandering creepily into the enemy’s territory; amidst such extravagant, throbbing horror there could be no slippage towards ordinary plausibility, like in the medical preferences of the Third Reich or a lysergic blues by Janis Joplin. ♦
Culture Magazine
