My religion is complicated. Literature is my true religion. After all, I come from a completely non-religious family.-- One of Orhan's many interviews at the intersection of art and agitprop.
Ellen Burstyn was the singular embodiment of first wave feminism in my youth; if Valerie Harper came into the limelight easing tensions about woman's lib and the now funereal ERA, which the Clinton quest for dominion certainly illustrates to be absurdest theater, Burstyn was the studio panacea for the deflated aspirations of Gloria Steinem. Ms Magazine is dead, and the only semantic relevance of girl power is simply to deconstruct the binary nature of gender roles.
Hence, a signature feature like Resurrection has been avoided out of tacky embarrassment, much like the five minutes given to Deepak Chopra's assurances offered to the anxiety of Christian gnosticism, and yet, no one forgets the end of this film, an old woman, coming to terms with self-reliance and the unexplained, passes her curative touch to a sick little boy, and for those who need God to exist outside of natural law, the pesky business of ontology is resolved as a triumph, which lies at the heart of salvation. Tragedy can be sudden and deep, like the accident which cripples the title character Ellen makes her own, but there are the consolations of grace, mysteries beyond biology, but Petrie doesn't quite rest on his laurels, picking sides. He indicts science for subjecting Edna to cruel objectification, and then takes aim at the theists for utilizing this woman as an agenda she certainly never subscribed to, turning her gift into a scourge, something the X-men franchise picks up later in a one dimensional fashion, in this century.
Resurrection makes no bones about the fact that ordinary people are heroic backbones, that common sense encapsulates eccentricity as a carnivalesque experience, if left to itself, and the absolute determination to have all the answers is sometimes more detrimental than acceptance of things beyond comprehension, and leaves the audience wanting to believe in the greater good.
I was going to convey, with an embarrassment of my own, that I've temporarily fallen in love with the voice, the vision, of Orhan Pamuk, which is inexplicable. Charlie Rose annoys me most of the time, and it may be I absorbed Orhan's responses because he was equally exotic and pasteurized as an Ottoman Imperial elite, but his resonance on me as the invisible graduate has no rational basis, unless it goes back to my story about my phantom sexual liaison with Jerry McGuire as a figment of my imagination.
The intelligentsia, while observant of my potential, often silently eyes me with consternation for my disruptions in the breach, and if I met Pamuk in whatever setting, he would probably recoil, taken aback, and I'd bristle with insolence, but from this distance, a gulf as wide as an aftershock, his stratagems in his story tellings have pierced the bitter vines which have entangled my internal organs, little salve to whatever such reverberations amount.
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