It's been extremely exciting (if not somewhat embarrassing) to watch my video essay on Paul Thomas Anderson's films become as popular as it has after uploading it to my Vimeo page. Every cinephilic publication from IndieWire's Press Play and The Playlist to filmmaking catch-all website No Film School have written about it, and the stream of encouraging comments and messages from fellow film fans has been overwhelmingly positive and encouraging. One publication, Mentorless, even built a fricken' flowchart based on my narrative theory. I'm not joking. It's like one of the top five most flattering things that has ever happened to me on the internet.

This is an ongoing story. We that all too well. For this reason, and for Selma's humble and honest acknowledgment of it, we are compelled to respond. These films don't only paint a revealing picture of our past, they point towards the future. They propel their themes and topics into the now. We yearn to cast our own vote in the house of representatives in hopes of bringing about political progress. We yearn to be as sensible and gracious as Brad Pitt's character in the midst of tumultuous economy and aggravating bias. We yearn to see more leaders respond to incredible injustice with the kind of grace and humility demonstrated by Martin Luther King.

In Nolan's morally ambiguous exploration of DC superhero property, the hero (anti-hero?) is faced with one underlying question: Is Gotham worth saving? The Dark Knight poses this question with reverent fervor. Amidst political intrigue and exploding hospital buildings, Gotham's inhabitants are treated with incredible dignity and worth. The Joker's facade was only ever as threatening as we, the people enabled it to be. The self-proclaimed "agent of chaos" preyed on our very moral identities, and juggled ethics with typical villainy-type destruction to disturbing effect. The Joker is scary because he speaks to the state of the human condition. The climactic boat sequence is the film's most memorable (and important!) because it delivers what it promises: the moral dignity of the people supposedly worth saving. 

The "Hall of Faith," found in the book of Hebrews, exalts the Old Testament hero for his righteousness. In the book of Genesis, we read that God speaks directly to Noah, promising a covenant and instructing him to build an ark to survive the flood. Again, Noah is noted for his righteousness. In Aronofsky's film, Methuselah tells Noah: "You must trust that he speaks in a way that you will understand." Noah is plagued by visions, and discerns that the Creator is giving him clear instructions. But the sheer consequence of these instructions don't resolve after floodwaters cover the earth: they fester within Noah's soul and mind, visions of hell on earth and the inherent evils of the human race.

Perhaps without realizing it, each of these filmmakers have modelled their narratives after the Hollywood escapist formula, crafting manipulative fantasies that fail to recognize the difference between reality and idealism. In doing this they have severely undermined their own agendas. I don't feel I can stress this enough: I'm not here just to throw scepticism in the face of independent filmmakers who are acting in earnest. I admire the ambition to collect funds, get your church together, whatever it takes to make a feature length film production! I'm only addressing a movement of filmmaking that I believe to be severely self-defeating. As film production becomes less expensive and more accessible, it becomes easier and easier to mimic the superficial qualities of the Hollywood formula. Is superficial as far as we're willing to go?

Reality is the thing that crops up again and again throughout George's life, always impeding the realization of his escapist fantasies. On one hand, his idealistic future seems almost in his grasp; on the other hand, his moral compass obliges him to meet the needs of the people in his life. Later in the film, a fun drawing of George lassoing the moon almost seems to mock his dreams and desires and he is unable to find the humor in it.

Winter has long been a popular muse for artists, inspiring both erotic and intrepid imaginations with its spirit, beauty and ferocity. Nineteenth century composer Tchaikovsky, all too familiar with long Russian winters, frequently drew romantic inspiration from the frigid season, composing elaborate symphonies brimming with fantasy and wonder. Winter was sentimental. But that was only after European industrialization and economy made it possible to observe winter from the comfort of a warm shelter. Ask anyone in the middle ages, and winter was death. Both figuratively and literally. It was merciless, relentless, and claimed the lives of many. All notions of sentimentality were brushed aside in the desperate fight to survive. Few would have considered ice and snow as artistic inspiration. ...

I was seventeen when I first found this jewel among cult favorites. Like many others, I remember fondly embracing Donnie Darko for the celebration of teenage angst it was. I watched it over and over, showing it to anyone who was willing, and praising it as a "cinematic revelation", though I hardly knew what that meant. Watching it again now, I can't help but smile as I remember how important this film was to my maturity and appreciation of film, and I still feel the warm tingles of cinematic 'magic' from Richard Kelly's accidently-awesome directorial debut. There's just something about it! ...