I’ve had a few writer/director crushes in my lifetime.
One of the strongest, unmistakably, was one mister Richard Linklater.
Ours was a love-at-first-site kind of relationship, destined to stand the test of time (and questionable improprieties such as Bad News Bears).
In college, while still maintaining an ever growing affection for Richard, I found myself unintentionally attracted to Edward Burns.
or, Ed, as I like to call him.
Eddie, if he has produced a particularly delightful film.
I don’t know if it’s the writing, per se, or the hypnotizing crinkly eyes… but, I digress.
Most recently, I have found myself drawn to Zach Helm with a passion I thought myself incapable of in this phase of my life.
What can I say? He swept me off my feet with his irresistible turns of phrase and an irrepressible zest for life.
But once upon a time, there was another man.
A man who had almost drifted into a faint memory, had it not been for Chris Eigeman weaseling his way into Gilmore Girls and resuscitating long dormant images of socialites, cocktails, and longings for lives of significance.
I first read of Whit Stillman between the pages of Jane Pratt’s Sassy Magazine.
Before converting to Christianity, Sassy was the guide to who I was planning to become… and afterward, it remained a guilty pleasure and subtle reminder of who I could have been, had I not been under the impression that God had an apparent distaste for uniqueness in his creation.
In a tiny corner article, I spied a still frame from Metropolitan and a brief synopsis of the movie that was immediately placed at the top of my rental list.
Barcelona would send me off to college and Last Days of Disco would celebrate my entry into the real world, but suddenly Whit went silent and I allowed my scandalous affair with the bourgeoisie subculture to lapse into an inexplicable youthful discretion.
But every now and then, I think of Whit, and I find myself longing to don pearls and a little black dress while waxing philosophical about the state of the world (which obviously revolves around me).
There are rumors that he’s back in town, and may soon grace us with his presence once again.
I try not to believe them.
I’m not sure my heart, or conscience, could handle it.
But in a tiny corner of my soul, I hold out hope for the return of the expatriate.
Perhaps he will gift us with something to show how his characters have matured - a mirror of my own transformation.
After all, a girl never forgets her first crush.