films
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I am posting in spite of my blog’s messy look. Sorry for that; Adam helped a bit, but I can’t get it tweaked quite right yet and I’ve been superbusy (it’s that time of year for us), so I haven’t been able to tinker. Anyway, I want to tell you about this (danger: spoilers ahead):
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Last weekend I finally watched the much-reviled film version of one of my favorite novels, Myra Breckinridge, starring Raquel Welch as the titular “T” and film critic Rex Reed as her masculine alter-ego. Rounding out the wonderful—but odd!—cast are Farrah Fawcett as the bland and stupid Mary Ann, John Huston as former film star and
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Over the holiday weekend I was pleased to find Netflix sent me an Almodóvar film from my queue. The Flower of My Secret tells the story of Leo, a highly successful romance novelist with a nom de plume that protects her from worshipping fans. Leo’s husband Paco is serving in the army in Brussels and
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Fassbinder’s final film, Querelle tells the story of the titular sailor in the French navy who, while ashore in the town of Brest, embarks on a voyage of sexual awakening…in what we might call “the company of men.” It’s a strange film, oddly-hued with burnt yellows and oranges, conspicuously filmed on a sound stage. Among
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I saw in the most recent issue of The Threepenny Review a symposium on the films of Pedro Almodóvar. It’s been a few months since I’ve had my favorite filmmaker in my life, so I quickly devoured the essays inside—brief though they were, they were delicous. What I loved about this symposium was that people
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