almost a shame he’s making one more, 'cause this plays like a swansong and ends on his most sublime and definitive image: a hushed ascent into hollywood heaven which illustrates how, like any zealot, he’s forever chasing ghosts. it’s worst when he’s blaming the loss of his rosebud on the rise of liberal resentment, this tearing down of great values and institutions of the past due to their ‘problematic’ baggage, but thankfully the love and grief mostly shine through the bitterness.