Persona (1966)

Twenty years ago I held a secret torch for a dear high school friend. For me she laid bare intimate torments shielded by a gentle generosity with an artistry elaborating the minimalism of a slumping gray haired man unaware a crumpled paper napkin had fallen from his grease smudged windbreaker pocket as he sat down on a Rice Park bench.

Her unfortunate eccentricity a lilting Caly accent drew Minnesota city-teen mockery. Few in high school knew she lived with her openly gay mother and partner. Revelations of their sex life brought comfort--a first snow of safety in the cold pillow of queer identity.

On her Uptown summer porch we shared a pint of Häagen-Dazs rum raisin, the liquor floating through butterfat to the soundtrack of Soul Asylum. On a Chicago visit, in my twin bed, her blond hair dropping down a knuckly spine, thin arm squeezing mine, we slept as sisters.

Viewing My Life as a Dog at the Varsity slugged me in the gut like the 6' 5" basketball center suckerpunching me after I spilled chocolate milk on him in lunch, catching me off guard in a crowded Ramsey Junior High hall. For ninety minutes tears drenched cheeks to salt lips. After the film she looked at me quizzically. Her pale blue eyes were dry.

The Marriage of Maria Braun (1979)

In the context of a Christian right's twisted fight for the 'sanctity' of marriage we need Fassbinder to enlighten the butchery in this patriarchal cellar--klären das Schlachten in diesem patriarchalischen keller auf.

Here is marriage as searching half sandwich-board photo frame dumped on railroad station track to be crushed under steel wheel, as cracked skull of naked black American soldier dead before torn sheeted bed, as shedding plaster shards from crossbeam open to white sky in two-ton firebombed schoolhouse, as BRD freshly soaking in Holocaust complicity shame, as fidelity to capital and infidelity to affection.

In the words of Adorno, "To watch romantic comedy after Auschwitz is barbaric."

Trafic (1971)

"Je n'ai vu aucun d'un automobiliste sourire," remarks Tati of the two hours he sat on a highway overpass, preparing for this film by observing drivers as they left Paris.

Mais non M. Hulot, ce film n'est pas une comédie. C'est un ballet des os cassés--a ballet of broken bones.

The canvas of Pissarro trembling with the demolition of Hausmann travels to the colored purity of Mondrian's movement of balancing black lines.

Embrace the Rube Goldberg confused coordination Citroën DS on front axle counter rolling through painted arrow on asphalt.

Mais oui M. Hulot, ce film est une tragédie poétique, comme Les Parapluies de Cherbourg.

Unfaithfully Yours (1948)

           ALFRED
Poor baby.
           DAPHNE
Why?
           ALFRED
'Cause you know that I know. You can feel
it. It's made you all small and ashamed and
unhappy. As if we could control our love--
lead it by the hand like an obedient child
and order it to do our bidding.
           DAPHNE
I don't know what you're talking about.
           ALFRED
Yes, you know what I'm talking about 'cause
love took you by the hand and led you,
albeit slyly and reluctantly, into the presence
of this beautiful young man and said,
"See little Daphne what I have intended for
you. Gaze upon your destiny. See how gently
the tendrils of his luscious hair curl behind
his ears. See how respectfully he lowers his
silken lashes when addressing you. But notice
the spark that leaps from his skin to yours
when accidentally your hands meet."
           DAPHNE
Oh no. No.
           ALFRED
I don't blame you darling. You didn't want to.
I'm the one to blame. Entirely and alone. I'm
deeply ashamed Daphne for what I've done to you.
           DAPHNE
You? Ashamed? I'm the one...
           ALFRED
No darling. The one who knows the most carries
the responsibility.  He and he alone must judge
the chances of success... or failure. A union
between a man of the world--a seasoned traveler
--and a child from Porthole, Michigan, I suppose
was doomed from the start.
           DAPHNE
(Sobbing)
Porthaul.
           ALFRED
I'll never remember it.  A baby with bows in
her hair, that wonderful night. Pity we
couldn't keep it up. Oh don't cry my darling.
I couldn't understand music as well as I do
if I didn't understand the human heart a
little.  Neither of you has done anything
wrong. Youth belongs to youth, beauty to
beauty.

The pen of Preston Sturges, the voice of Rex Harrison, the lens of Victor Milner, the music of Richard--not Strauss but Wagner, the taste of honeyed ham lingers on the tongue 'til eyes water.