I was going to write several things about Moonstruck (1987), which Viking Zen screened for me earlier this evening, and then while showering I realized that the film is an utterly valid retelling of Little Red Riding Hood—à la Angela Carter, not Charles Perrault. I seen a wolf in every person I ever met and I see a wolf in you. You tell me a story and you think you know what it means, but I see the true story and you can't. You run to the wolf in me, that don't make you no lamb. And her wine-red dress, and the full moon. I love stories where the folktales are there like bones. More ensemble romantic comedies should have barely metaphorical lycanthropy.
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- 1: A second flood, a simple famine, plagues of locusts everywhere
- 2: So Krishna stole the butter, did he?
- 3: When I invited Frank and you back to mine for a mange tout when I meant ménage à trois
- 4: The shadows on the walls don't recognize me anymore
- 5: Well, you can't tell much from faces
- 6: This po-mo stuff is nice, but it's irrelevant to the way I feel right now
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