Once upon a time Yû had a mother. When the sun shone technicolor-vivid through translucent shards of stained glass to halo her hair, he was happy. She shone sun-bright and Yû smiled a contented smile. Yû buttoned his shirt. Yû tied his tie tighter and tighter. Yû was a model student modeled by a model mother.

Then came the coffin. Then came the silty soil. Then came the sea of sins. But first came the promise.

Whispering when only she knew what was soon to be seen by father, son, and society at large, she sweetly implored:

Son. You must search the world for the one whose calm countenance most resembles that blessed lady who, still unsoiled by sticky seed and world wicked ways, birthed a son who spilled divine blood for the forgiveness of sins and the stifling of strife. You must find your very own Maria. She, the star of the seas. Continue Reading…

Like religious pictures, most adaptations of classic literature are lazy. Cast and crew alike often opt to lean on the previously proven subject matter. Even a lifeless retelling of a fan favorite will lure a crowd. For workman directors there is simply no reason to try. Thankfully, Cary Fukunaga, the thirty-four year old director of Jane Eyre is not content to rest on his laurels. In a surprising turn, he shifted focus from the sweltering Chiapas jungles of Sin Nombre, his immigration driven debut, to the misty moors of not-so-jolly old England. His picture is not a stodgy old bit of masterpiece theatre, but a living adaptation of a tale that has been retold countless times. Continue Reading…

Picture your kitchen after the preparation of an elaborate holiday meal. Scraps of tender flesh stick to slow roasted bone. Aromatic oils and flavor-rich animal fats cling to tediously stacked pots and pans. Vegetable skins and citrus pulp clog your drain. Silverware and beverage holders are in short supply. The grander the meal, the more intimidating the cleanup. Perhaps you’ll leave it for another day. Or another week. Or another year.

The same can be said for my writing. I watched a number of movies over the winter holiday. Most were moderately compelling. I hoped to write about each of them in turn. Time took its toll. Nothing came together. Now, my head is clogged with half remembered ideas. In order to move forward, I must stuff these scraps into the garbage disposal. In sharing them here, I will turn flip the switch, grind the garbage, clear the slate, and start afresh. Only then will I be able to refocus on upcoming projects. Mysteries of Lisbon. Love Exposure. Aurora. Eisenstein and Bresson retrospectives. The Expanded Narratives course at the Siskel Film Center/Art Institute of Chicago. The treasure trove of rare additions just posted to Criterion’s Hulu channel. And on and on. And on with the purge. Continue Reading…