I know, it's a crime. I didn't finish Milk. How could I? Diego Luna was battling with all my fantasies of him and Tuscany! Or some relevant Before-Sunrise scene!
Sean Penn is nothing short of a genius with his art, but so help me Gus, I cannot stomach him and my Diyeeegoh kissing! Oi! I thought I was prepared for it, too. I hoped and prayed that I wouldn't lose my sh-t when he'd ineffectively (of course, he would be) make goo-goo eyes at Harvey Milk. But I'm not too self-possessed these days.
Milk is a little film of mass proportions on the history of gay rights movement in the US. In the little over 40 minute footage I saw, the level of awareness and activism exploding all over my monitor screen was pure magic. You gotta love men on a mission. Gay or straight.
Watching Harvey Milk calling out to the sea of angry faces to march the streets of San Fransisco sent a familiar feeling you don't normally shake off at times like these. Like impatience, nausea and nostalgia exploding in a blender at high speed.
All I need now is Slumdog Millionaire to intoxicate me with its saturated reds. Someone give me a copy, pretty please?
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