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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