most of my life i’ve lived in the suburbs, by a lake, full of peaceful mundanity that i was quietly okay with. the city, while not too far away, seemed like a distant dream to me for much of my youth, a weird haze of people with purpose and people without it. something about it was almost unattainable, as if to live there meant success... or something.
recently i’ve moved to the city, and i’m suddenly struck with how it…
“do all lovers feel they’re inventing something?”
wow. i have no words for this film. nothing that can do it justice, at least. i’ve written many versions of a review that analyses the work of art that is portrait of a lady on fire, however nothing i wrote felt good enough. i remember reading somewhere that céline sciamma wrote portrait of a lady on fire as a tribute to the female artists of the past. whose work hangs unnamed and…
*insert sobbing emoji here*
the most wholesome shit i’ve ever seen.
Lena Headey screaming “YOU’RE A WANKER NUMBER NINE” across a football field is peak cinema.
