24 Frames: The Piano

I didn’t work at a movie theater until I was nearly 30, though not for lack of trying. Throughout my late teens and early twenties, I dutifully submitted job applications at numerous cineplexes but was unable to convince any of them to hire me. Apart from a six-week stint as seasonal help at the Suncoast Video in Southridge Mall, I couldn’t find work at a video store, either. I applied to every Blockbuster location I could easily reach by bus and even scored an interview at a local chain, Video Planet, where I flailed to answer questions from an intimidating, burly manager with a thick Eastern-European accent. At the time, I chalked it up to this industry’s competitive nature—what young person wouldn’t want to work at a cinema or video store? Someone more aggressive and persistent than me might’ve scored such a job instead of settling for less desirable, more attainable work—in my case, cashier at an auto parts store and (briefly) busboy at a chain buffet restaurant.

The summer after high school graduation, my good friend Agnes got hired as part-time help at Budget South Cinemas, a second-run, six-screen theater in the suburbs. Since tickets were only two bucks at a time when most places charged at least six or seven, it was immensely popular. My parents and I often drove out there to see stuff that had bounced around other theatres months before, from family-friendly hits (The Princess BrideStar Trek IV: The Voyage Home) to absolute dreck (Superman IV: The Quest For Peace.) Even if the movies weren’t technically brand new, they were new enough. More importantly, you couldn’t beat the price.

Budget South Cinemas, 2014. It closed for good a year later.

Agnes worked at the concessions stand, making popcorn, fetching soda and candy for customers and cleaning up the theaters after every screening. She continued picking up shifts after starting school at UW-Madison in the fall, coming home to Milwaukee every weekend to earn some extra cash well into the next summer. As I came to know intimately as an adult working for a cinema, the job’s greatest (and usually only) perk was free movies. In Agnes’ case, she could also bring along multiple guests for a reduced admission of one dollar each. Any cash-strapped 18-year-old in 1993 would confirm that a buck a movie was even cheaper than spending a few hours at Denny’s nursing bottomless pots of coffee, so of course we saw a lot of movies during her tenure there.

So right was the price that we barely discriminated as to what we saw. Cool RunningsRobin Hood: Men In TightsThreesomeWith HonorsAirheads—nothing, not even the latest Pauly Shore vehicle was too bad for a dollar. Having missed it in the first-run theaters, we ended up watching Jurassic Park there at least six times, partially because it played for months and months but mostly because it was awesome entertainment, a big budget spectacle that truly represented the best Hollywood currently had to offer. I almost considered making it the focus of this essay (I’ll bet I can still recall every single scene despite not having seen it since the 90’s), but then I thought of something else I first watched at Budget back then.

Since discovering Monty Python and the Holy Grail three years earlier, my interest in alternative and cultish types of comedy had flourished but that didn’t fully translate to the kinds of films I viewed. Entertainment Weekly’s “The 100 Funniest Movies On Video” issue, which dropped in October 1992 had a considerable impact, even if I’d just begun to seek out prime Mel Brooks and early Woody Allen flicks. I did stumble upon Midnight Cowboy on TV late one night, long after my parents had gone to bed. I hadn’t seen subject matter so explicitly sexual before, not to mention techniques as arty as the film’s quick cuts and zooms and comparatively rambling narrative.

I was faintly aware of a world of film beyond the likes of Jurassic Park and Sister Act 2: Back In The Habit: movies made for adults that were nominated for awards such as Howard’s EndThe Player and The Crying Game. Driven as I was to comedies, I didn’t think to search for these more serious pictures; even dark satire The Player was difficult to find because it didn’t play the multiplexes I frequented. It follows that I might not have watched The Piano with Agnes one evening if she hadn’t recommended it to me after first seeing it on her own at Budget. I’m certain I’d heard good things about the film but had little idea of what it was actually about. Still, I knew Sam Neill from Jurassic Park was in it (and again, the price was right.)

Viewing The Piano that first time, I recall leaving the theater feeling a little confused but on the whole, transformed. Entirely unfamiliar with the setting (a remote, heavily forested island in 19th century New Zealand) or culture (colonialists living among the indigenous Maori population), I’d also never witnessed a protagonist like Ada (Holly Hunter), a mute, unmarried Scottish woman with a young daughter, Flora (Anna Paquin). The two are shlepped to the other side of the world to partake in a 90 Day Fiancé-type marriage with frontiersman Alisdair (Neill). No explanations for Ada’s muteness—she hasn’t spoken a word since age six, only communicating with Flora via sign language (who in turn is her interpreter.) She also has this deep near-mystical relationship with her handcrafted piano, which she has lugged along with her from Scotland. She plays it lovingly on the shore, devastated to leave it there when it’s deemed too heavy to carry through the deep woods back to Alisdair’s place by his crew.

Then there’s Alisdair’s friend and fellow frontiersman, Baines (Harvey Keitel) who offers to trade some of his land in exchange for the piano, which he has moved to his cabin. When Ada confronts Baines, he makes another offer, to let her “earn back” the piano key by key in return for lessons where he can observe her and “do things he likes” as she plays (which involves him wearing increasingly less articles of clothing.) While Ada remains cold and standoffish to Alisdair (who is truly clueless in his attempts to connect with her), she negotiates with Baines, setting ground rules and upping the number of keys earned back as his actions towards her get more physical and then tenderer. It’s that last attribute, diametrically opposed to her husband’s awkwardness that moves her to fall for Baines. Naturally, Alisdair’s pissed and it all escalates to a climax where Ada’s spurned hubby ruthlessly cuts off one of her fingers. After some heavy emoting from both of the men in Ada’s life, Alisdair sends her and Flora away to live with Baines and dissolves their marriage. 

Quite a triangle, eh? Actually, the relationship between Ada and Flora proves more compelling than her hots for Baines. Eerily resembling each other as if they were the largest and smallest components of a nesting doll, Hunter and Paquin seem to share a telepathic connection, as if their souls are linked. Director/writer Jane Campion often shifts the attention to these two actresses for extended moments that have little to do with the central narrative, as if to emphasize their bond and how it serves as a lifeline between the two. As Ada spends more time with Baines, it arguably has a greater impact on Flora than Alisdair, as her acting out against Ada (she gleefully spills the beans to her stepfather) directly leads to her mother’s shocking mutilation.

On top of all that, consider the film’s gutsy, startling ending. As Ada, Baines and Flora leave the island by boat with all their belongings and a crew, Ada impulsively decides to throw the piano overboard (“She says she doesn’t need it anymore,” wails Flora.) Whether through guilt over betraying Alisdair or, more likely, grief over losing her appendage (and by default her ability to play music), at the last minute she deliberately sticks her foot in a tangled rope attached the piano so that it pulls her overboard as well. However, a survival instinct in her suddenly kicks in. She removes her foot from the rope, swims to the surface and is pulled up back on the boat. In a brief epilogue, we see her happily settled on the mainland with Baines and Flora, able to play and teach piano courtesy of a metal finger Baines has crafted for her. The final shot is the specter of Ada drowned with her piano, a haunting reminder of what could have been.

Not only more adult than Jurassic ParkThe Piano was also far more unconventional, from featuring a main character who didn’t speak a word (apart from some brief voiceover in the beginning and at the end) to its otherworldly settling and surprising conclusion (which would’ve been even more daring had Ada remained drowned for good.) While I didn’t go back to watch it another five times (I doubt it played at Budget for more than two weeks), I eventually acquired my own VHS copy of it and a published copy of the screenplay. I also saw all of Campion’s earlier films, from the bizarre, purposely disorienting Sweetie (which makes The Piano look like A River Runs Through It) to her earlier shorts.

I felt a little cautious revisiting the film for the first time in two decades: how would the relationship between Ada and Baines hold up? I feared it would feel exploitative, having recalled most vividly the “trading keys for sexual favors” storyline with multiple shots of Keitel’s bare ass (The Piano is from a brief, strange period when way too many filmmakers mysteriously craved some nudity from middle-aged Harvey.) Fortunately, this was not at all the case, thanks to Keitel’s sensitive, nuanced performance and his ability to express how Baines’ lust genuinely transforms into love the more time he spends with Ada. I suspect Campion, who clearly fashioned the screenplay to make Ada not a victim but someone with enough control to negotiate with Baines when possible was instrumental in guiding Keitel as well.

What hasn’t aged entirely well is the film’s portrayal of the Māori indigenous population. Credit Campion with hiring actual members of that community, even if they’re still treated like second-class citizens, savages quick with saucy retorts who engage in such undistinguished activities as humping trees. The pageant scene, where a few are gullible enough to think the fake severed heads dangling from a hanging bedsheet are real provided a lot of laughs at the time; while it’s still amusing in an early-cinema-audiences-fear-that-the-train-on-screen-is-heading-straight-for-them way, it comes across as condescending, not to mention unnecessary. As for Keitel adopting the Māori’s tribal tattoos, I’m just thankful that it’s only his character’s appropriation and not the film trying to pass him off as an actual tribal member.

Also, a faint whiff of what I’ll call “Miramax-ness” infests the film. Consider the bodice-ripping between Ada and Baines (with Alisdair secretly watching!), the bland, verging on “Piano By Candlelight” Michael Nyman score (most bearable when Ada’s simply playing the instrument) or the slo-mo shots of Ada triumphantly emerging from nearly having drowned at the end. You wouldn’t find this stuff in a lower budget or truly independent film from the era like Go FishMetropolitan or anything directed by Hal Hartley. It’s not bad, exactly, but it comes off as overtly middlebrow now, a tony alternative rather than something radical or even transgressive.

However, I’m still in awe of much about The Piano. Hunter, for one, disappears so wholly into Ada I can barely name anyone else that compares (maybe Charlize Theron in Monster?) At the time, I wasn’t familiar with the actress apart from Raising Arizona; it didn’t register that this was the same person. Having grown to know Hunter well through a variety of roles, from Miss Firecracker through The Big Sick and encounter her again as Ada was eye-opening. Naturally, it helps that arguably the actress’s most distinguishing feature, her southern drawl is entirely absent, and yet—after watching her here, withdrawn, bonneted and much younger and catching her diminutive, scraggly, redheaded, aged self in an episode of Mr. Mayor later that day, I was beside myself trying to reconcile these two opposites.

The look of the film also remains startling. Even with a location automatically otherworldly due to its remoteness, Campion emphasizes certain textures that renders The Piano as if it’s been taken from a dream. Greens and blues, both colors often bleeding into the other seem to invade nearly every frame. The empty, languorous beach shots seem a precursor to those in Portrait of a Lady On Fire. The endless forest is an ideal place to explore interior motives and thoughts, for keeping secrets and indulging in the most private fantasies. The muddy terrain is such that one can nearly feel or smell it whenever a shoe gets stuck in the muck or during that terrifying aftermath of Ada’s mutilation, where, dazed and traumatized, she dutifully, naturally sinks into the ground, her hoop skirt acting as a natural if ephemeral shell.

What initially struck me about The Piano and still impresses is a remarkable lack of stuffiness for a period piece drama. Ada, for instance, is unsentimental towards everything except her piano, and even at the end she knows when it’s time to get rid of it. In addition to the pageant and tree-humping scenes, flashes of humor materialize throughout, from the doddering ladies young and old that keep up the colony where Alisdair and Ada reside to the indelible moment when, in Ada’s attempts to try something physical with her husband, we learn that he doesn’t care for butt stuff. Also, you have to admire the exchange where Alisdair asks Flora, “Where’s your mother? Where’s she gone?” and incensed because she knows her mother’s exactly where she shouldn’t be, Paquin explodes at him, “TO HELL!” with crack timing and force for a ten-year-old (and yes, Paquin’s Best Supporting Actress Academy Award was as much deserved as Hunter’s for Best Actress and Campion’s for Best Original Screenplay, not to mention the latter’s nod for Best Director—the second woman to ever be nominated in that category.)

Before I re-watched it, I felt like The Piano was somewhat forgotten, in a way that a mid-60’s Best Picture Nominee such as The Sand Pebbles was barely talked about in 1993. Today, you rarely see it play at colleges or revival houses although as of this writing, you can rent it on Amazon to stream. I was pleasantly surprised to see it had more views on IMDb and Letterboxd than that year’s fellow Best Picture nominee The Remains Of The Day. For me, it was an introduction to independent cinema, at least of the Miramax-distributed, Oscar-feted variety, but it didn’t lead to me renting other likeminded films, not yet. The Piano was more like a glimpse into another world: a bridge between what I liked in my youth and what I would love as a grownup when I eventually worked at a cinema myself.

Essay #2 of 24 Frames.

Go back to #1: Monty Python and The Holy Grail.

24 Frames: Monty Python and The Holy Grail

Introducing 24 Frames, a new project where I write about movies—not necessarily my all-time favorites (although many of them will be) but those that had a significant impact on the way I watched and perceived movies in general. Aiming for a blend of film criticism and memoir with these, just as I occasionally did for music on 100 Albums. Essays will appear in chronological order of when I first viewed a film. Also, spoilers are guaranteed in each of these essays.

*****

Growing up, movies were just another leisure activity for me, as commonplace as walks in the park, visits to museums or Sunday drives out of the city. Going to “See a Show” (as my dad often called it) meant very little other than a social activity to partake in with friends and family until I hit my twenties.

Which is not to say I didn’t have any memorable childhood moviegoing experiences. From Disney’s Pinocchio, my first time in a cinema at age four (I have no actual memory of this, but my mom often mentioned it, never failing to note how scared I was) through roughly my early teens, like any good parents, my folks kept watch over what I saw. At ten, Back To The Future was entirely acceptable, even if the incest-leaning subplot between Marty and his mother was completely over my head (I did feel a little embarrassed watching with my parents the scene where Lea Thompson shows a bit of skin in the car with Michael J. Fox.)

Still, five years later, my mom forbid me to see the racy, R-rated Rob Lowe/James Spader thriller Bad Influence after my buddy Mike had won two tickets to it in a radio contest. By then, I was going out to the movies with friends instead of exclusively with my parents. Mike and I never tried to get into R-rated stuff, but we’d watch such things as The Addams Family or Joe Versus the Volcano (I rarely missed a Tom Hanks film in that post-Dragnet, pre-Philadelphia period) at pretty much the same places I went to see Harry and The Hendersons or Return To Oz with my parents a few years before.

However, I had to go beyond the local multiplexes or, in fact, any theater to stumble across a movie that, for the first time, expanded my idea of what one could be and also feel like it was somehow made just for me. This happened during a classmate’s birthday party at her split-level suburban home. It was less a “Sweet Sixteen” than a decidedly casual gathering—no getting-to-know-you icebreakers or games, just the usual opening of gifts, cutting of the cake and unfettered socializing.

After cake, the birthday girl wanted to watch a movie. Squealing with glee, she put her tape of Monty Python and The Holy Grail (which I’ll shorten to Holy Grail from here on) into the VCR. About twenty of us congregated into the family room as it began. I’d heard of but wasn’t too well versed in this old British comedy troupe, having watched Monty Python’s Flying Circus on MTV occasionally for a minute or two while flipping through channels.

I had no expectations when the film’s title first appeared in white on a black screen accompanied by a loud, dramatic minor chord on the soundtrack. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the title again at the bottom of the screen in tiny letters. Something was off—it was in a foreign language which I didn’t yet recognize to be a sort of pidgin Swedish. This continued, unexplained for the next few frames of the credits roll, although it was soon obviously clear the subtitles weren’t matching up with their English counterparts. Under various crew member names, the subtitles consisted of such incongruities as, “Wi nøt trei a høliday in Sweden this yër?”and “Including the majestik møøse” (the latter under a string of credits arranged in the form a note erroneously “Signed RICHARD M. NIXON”.)

Then, the increasingly suspenseful score dwindled to a stop as if someone turned off the record player. Credits in a different font read, “We apologise for the fault in the subtitles. Those responsible have been sacked”; unfamiliar with that British colloquialism, I pictured someone getting hit in the head with a giant literal sack, not unlike the fake 16-ton weight that occasionally fell from the sky on characters on Monty Python’s Flying Circus.

The credits resumed, sans subtitles, seemingly normal until they definitely were not, becoming increasingly moose-centric: “Møøse trained to mix concrete and sign complicated insurance forms (by) JURGEN WIGG”, for instance. Soon enough, the score stopped again, followed by an additional insert informing us of more people getting sacked and a notice that “The credits have been completed in an entirely different style at great expense and at the last minute”—in this case, on a yellow flicker screen with celebratory Mariachi music, many mentions of llamas (including directorial credits to a few) and, at the very end, one at the bottom for the film’s actual directors (and Python members) Terry Gilliam and Terry Jones, kissed by a feisty “OLE!” on the soundtrack.

I had never before laughed so wildly at an opening credits sequence. It did what one was supposed to do while also frequently inciting total anarchy, not only spoofing the idea of mismatched subtitles but also breaking the so-called fourth wall, acting as if the credits were being constructed on the spot as the audience viewed them. Was the entire movie going to be like this? It certainly drew me in.

After a title card (ENGLAND, 932 A.D.) in a ridiculously ostentatious font, King Arthur (Graham Chapman) and his trusty assistant Patsy (Gilliam) arrive at a castle, not riding horses but banging two coconuts together to emulate the sound of their hooves (a solution to the expense and hassle of filming with actual horses.) The castle’s unnamed Lookout wonders where they had possibly found coconuts in England; it is suggested an African swallow could’ve carried them over and a back-and-forth ensues about swallows, their weight and air velocity, etc. Arthur and Patsy, bored, move on, coconuts at the ready.

Holy Grail initially feels like little more than a series of Medieval-centric sketches that could easily slot into the troupe’s TV show (which had aired its fourth and final season the same year.) A man (Eric Idle) strolls through a peasant village pushing his cart, collecting bodies (“Bring out yer dead!”) with a methodical nonchalance as if it were just an ordinary trash day. Arthur and Patsy briefly pass through and in the next scene, the former has an argument with an anachronistic, Marxism-spouting peasant (Michael Palin). They “ride” on into the forest and meet The Black Knight, who challenges Arthur’s authority with a duel, refusing to back down as the latter proceeds to hack off all his limbs. A line of marching, chanting monks methodically whack their own heads in unison with enormous books while Sir Bedevere (Jones) listens to an angry mob of men grasping at straws to prove that a young woman is actually a witch, to which Arthur joins the conversation.

It’s not until Bedevere and Arthur meet that the film’s narrative starts taking shape. We hear from an offscreen narrator about how they assemble the Knights of the Round Table (via a cutaway to “The Book of The Film”); following a brief musical interlude regarding the castle Camelot (done in the style of a rousing, Gilbert and Sullivan-esque number), a deliberately hastily-animated (by Gilliam) God appears from the heavens and informs Arthur and his knights of their heavenly quest, which is to find the film’s titular sacred object. From there, the episodic structure returns as knights individually split off to seek the Grail, only for them all to reunite in the final third to confront such obstacles as a killer rabbit, The Bridge of Death and a castle curiously guarded by some discourteous Frenchmen.

As with their TV show, Python loves a good running gag for the sake of a punchline and Holy Grail is chock full of them: numerous variations on the phrases “I’m not quite yet dead” and “I’m getting better!”; a fey Prince whom continually threatens to break into song, only for his father to plead to the camera to literally stop the swelling music; Arthur’s inability to count to three (substituting the word “five” only to be immediately corrected by one of his crew, “Three, sir!”); even the opening debate regarding swallows gets a callback when we first see Bedevere (attempting to release an actual swallow with a coconut tied to its leg), and later when it turns up the subject of one of the questions the Gatekeeper (Gilliam again) asks in order to allow passage over the Bridge of Death.

Motifs like these are common in comedies—just consult the work of Mel Brooks, whose Young Frankenstein, made around the same time as Holy Grail, features Gene Wilder’s titular character, an operatic tyrant not all that far removed from Chapman’s Arthur. But Holy Grail is more than just gags for the sake of being funny—as it goes on, it further deconstructs the very idea of itself, going all the way back to those opening credits. No matter how invested one becomes in the plot (and all the little side-plots) or the characters, the film keeps viewers aware that it’s only a movie (not unlike Patsy sniffing at Camelot in his sole line of dialogue, “It’s only a model”) and that none of it is real—a big risk for any movie to take considering it’s a medium that usually relies on an audience’s suspension of disbelief.

In addition to the aforementioned “The Book of The Film”, Holy Grail exhibits such self-awareness by referring to one sequence as “Scene 24” (I haven’t counted to see whether it actually is the 24th scene onscreen), stopping the action when a character pauses, looks at the camera as says, mid-scene, “Do you think this scene should’ve been cut?” (in fact, this part was cut and I didn’t see it reinstated until the film was first released on DVD) or an animated stretch where the cast is chased by a grotesque monster until the narrator tells us, “Suddenly, the animator suffered a fatal heart attack!” (cut to Gilliam drawing at his desk and quickly keeling over), continuing, “The cartoon peril was no more; the quest for the Holy Grail could continue.”

Holy Grail’s riskiest, most outlandish conceit arrives roughly a half-hour in when it cuts to an elderly man in contemporary scholarly clothes referred to as “A FAMOUS HISTORIAN.” As he excitedly lectures the camera about Arthur and the quest for the Grail, a knight on a horse (possibly Sir Lancelot (John Cleese)), face concealed gallops into the frame and slashes the poor sod’s throat, leaving the scene of the crime as quickly as he arrived. A grieving woman runs into the frame over to the slain body and cries out, “Frank!”

The film resumes as if this was just a silly aberration, but we’re far from done with the incident. About fifteen minutes pass before the grieving woman reappears along with two policeman, looking over the slain Frank. Later, the policemen and a detective, searching through the forest, overhear an explosion that is the killer rabbit getting obliterated by the Holy Hand Grenade. These dialogue-free scenes are so brief you might miss them; still, we know something is up late in the film when Arthur suddenly wonders where Lancelot has disappeared to and we cut to the latter arrested and detained, being searched as he stands, submissive, with his hands on a police car.

This strange counter-narrative doesn’t fully pay off until the final scene when, Arthur having assembled an army of hundreds (seemingly out of thin air) to storm a castle rumored to be holding the Grail, leads their charge only for the siren-blaring police car to cut them off. The grieving woman from earlier walks towards him and tells the police, “Yes, they’re the ones, I’m sure!” The detective leads Arthur into the back of a paddy wagon, a blanket put over his head. A policeman with a megaphone breaks up the more disappointed-than-disgruntled army and then implores the cameraman to stop filming (“Alright Sonny, that’s enough!”), putting his hand up against the lens. Everything goes white and then fades to black. Jaunty organ music plays on a blank screen for nearly three minutes. The End.

That first watch, I recall feeling more bewildered than disappointed at such an absurd ending. Admittedly, my attention had wavered in and out through the film’s duration; given its purposely episodic structure, I wonder if that was partially by design. I’d see it again six months later when it happened to air on a local UHF channel one evening. Of course, this broadcast was heavily edited for TV, not only cutting out naughty words and excessive gore, but changing the ending from a blank screen to a replay of the opening credits (at least the incongruous organ music was intact!) Eventually, Comedy Central would air a cut closer to the theatrical version that I’d watch again and again until the DVD arrived a decade later.

Even after I saw it numerous times, I still lazily dismissed the film’s ending, thinking it sort of… fell apart, not even making an effort to conclude its narrative in a satisfying way—just one of many unconventionally fun and different things about it. Even after earning a master’s degree in Film Studies, I clung to this opinion, and why not? To paraphrase Arthur’s concluding thoughts on Camelot after that whirlwind production number, “Holy Grail? It is a silly film.”

Of course, one of Monty Python’s greatest achievements was not only indulging in silliness but also taking it seriously—at least to the point before getting pretentious about it. While Holy Grail’s ending is not nearly one of the film’s funniest moments, it is one of its boldest. By allowing the modern day figures to not only intrude the action but literally bring the film to a close is a near-genius move. Think you’ve been watching a satirical goof about Medieval England? Well, how about something where a bunch of men film themselves dressed up as figures from Medieval England, assuming the roles of fictional characters, wreaking havoc, doing whatever they want until, after ninety minutes, they’re finally forced to stop?

The more one considers the implications of this, the more layers Holy Grail accumulates. One could think, “Yes, you’re watching a film. Of course, none of it’s real. Perhaps these people onscreen are delusional—this guy in the crown actually thinks he’s a King, the git!” And yet, such transparency doesn’t obscure the notion Holy Grail remains an entertaining comedy and an enjoyable spoof, not to mention a perfectly silly film.

While it took years for me to appreciate the movie and its ending on all of those levels, not long after that first viewing I did start taping Monty Python’s Flying Circus reruns whenever I could and eventually watched their other four feature films (I appreciated them all but have never felt as connected to any of them as Holy Grail); it also pointed the way towards humor more unconventional and intricate than what I previously knew, indirectly leading to Mystery Science Theater 3000, George Carlin’s stand-up and even old Beatles albums, whose wit and wordplay I hadn’t fully detected when I’d heard their hits on the radio as a kid.

Holy Grail didn’t turn me into a cineaste; on that first viewing, I responded more to the content than the form. But it was an early peak, an opening, a faint suggestion that movies offered much more than I had previously thought.

Essay #1 of 24 Frames.

 Go ahead to #2: The Piano.