The answer for me is for certain Sirk on Sirk with Dorothy Malone stroking that trophy derrick on its superlative cover, a gem long out of print and maximally rife for rediscovery. New York Review Books, can you hear me?! Sirk was what the European male was meant to become if not for two preposterous World Wars and the invention of mass media. Is Sirk on Sirk better than Robert Bresson's mandatory but ascetic, severe, and Pascal-derived Notes on the Cinematograph? Well, let me just say that in comparison to Bresson, if only on the surface of things where I am forever lacing and re-lacing my shoes inert in the moon dirt, Sirk is much more clearly an earth creature who dines and loves, checks receipts to make sure he hasn't been overcharged, and sleeps (he was doubtlessly a snorer)...things like that...
Written on the Wind (Douglas Sirk, 1956)
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