Real chicken soup for the soul movie. I've been working through a lot of homesickness lately, a lot of searching for where it is I actually belong. Brooklyn turns that yearning into poetry.

I'm dumbstruck. The astounding make-up work, a script of incredible depth and breadth, electric direction, the brutal-gentle passage of time, Roger Livesey the sensitive bull, the irrepressible Deborah Kerr, and the miracle that is Anton Walbrook. A film almost unbearably sublime—like looking directly into the sun. This is my argument for the continuing life of the movie theater. Leaves floating on the water. To the Archers I genuflect.

Linklater hangout film but make it dour and downbeat, soaked in grief, tinged with rage, acidic about the military. The only true bummer here is the soft-pedaled, phoned-in optimism of the ending.

Electric style and surreality combine to fuel this tale of queer becoming and rejecting the house that trauma built. Loved this from my guts. Happy Pride!

It's not your fault.
It's not your fault.
It's not your fault.
It's not your fault. (I get misty about here)
It's not your fault.
It's not your fault.
It's not your fault. (Damon lasts this long)
It's not your fault.
It's not your fault.
It's not your fault. (The eagle has landed)