Recap

    I want to join the parade of those who've put out a Year in Review. 

    As with the rest of the community, I lament the shrinking of the short story market. The articles I read speak about the expanded opportunities for shorts. My inbox tells me about contraction. Honestly, I'm not sure where we stand. A flurry of emails marked the last third of the year. Down and Out folded, the first one said. The anthology we'd planned won't be published. We've found a new home, a later message reported. Your story will appear. But expect delays in publication. There has been a pro wrestling quality to this year. The hero looks beaten and down on the mat. He struggles to get his snakeskin boots back under him. Will he get up? I don't know. 

    We're left with uncertainty about the state of publishing for the year to come. That is unfortunate. No one like existential ambiguity. 

    And I'm sorry that a pall hangs over our publishing scene. It clouds what might well be my most exciting writing year ever. 

    In April, Severn River Publishing released my debut novel, The Devil's Kitchen. The second book in the series, The Hidden River, followed in October. Getting a novel into print had been a long sought-after goal. I'm thrilled that the dream came to fruition. 

    Eight new short stories found homes this year in magazines and anthologies, along with one reprint. I better enjoy the moment. My submissions declined in 2025, so my short story numbers may dip in the coming years. 

    One story, "The Kratz Gambit," got short-listed for a Derringer and then subsequently included in The Best Private Eye Stories of the Year. 

    My traveling companion and I ventured out more. Many of the mystery conferences offer a spotlight moment for debut authors. We took advantage of the opportunities. Besides promotion, the conferences offered collateral benefits. I finally had the chance to meet Rob Lopresti and others in person. I appreciate the chance to shake hands with folks who have been helpful to me along my writing journey. I count those meetings among my year's highlights. 

Despite the difficulties, the community of writers was a great source of support. In particular, thanks to Michael and Josh. You weathered the crises when your anthologies suddenly died. You found new homes and brought them back to life. Thank you for your efforts. 

    I appreciate the wider circle of writers as well. Thank you for inviting me to guest blog when I was seeking to promote my books. I appreciate your emails of congratulations and encouragement during the year's high points. Thank you for attending the conference panels and taking the time to say hello. As president of the local Sisters in Crime chapter, I'm grateful for your willingness to volunteer your time and speak at our meetings. Thanks for promptly and graciously answering your emails. 

    And to you writers and your kick-ass stories, thanks for inspiring me to do better. 

    It was an uncertain year. Your support proved to be constant. Please know that I appreciate it. 

    Until next year. 

I'll have what they're having.

I lived in London in the mid-70s, and found much to love about the place.  The members of my family whose genealogical roots were planted in the British Isles had inculcated me with an enduring Anglophilia long before I set foot in the place.  So I was predisposed to enjoy the accents, Georgian architecture, desiccated wit and lousy food, but it took months of jumping on the rear of red buses and fighting off chilblains to really appreciate Britain’s deeper charms.

The most pleasing contrast with America was the absence of celebrity culture. It seemed as if the Royal Family sucked up all the voyeuristic oxygen, leaving little for movie stars and football players.

  This became clear when I was told several of the blokes I’d been

hanging around for months at our local pub were cast members of Monty Python, who were early in their ascent, but already internationally famous. I didn’t realize this because no one fawned over them, badgered them for autographs or snapped flash bulbs in their faces (pre-selfie, thank the good Lord).  In fact, Graham Chapman always looked a little lonely sitting there by himself at the bar.

I cleave to a similar tradition, where I admire certain people whose accomplishments have made them famous, though never for the fame itself.

  I’ve met a few celebrities along the way, most of whom were exceedingly gracious and well mannered, along with a handful of jerks who likely achieved that designation through certain native gifts.

            Since America does have a robust celebrity culture, I’m used to long, passionate public eulogies for anyone dying with a Q rating above .1, some of whom I genuinely grieve having lost.  There’s nothing wrong with this, since every passing is a sad event for their loved ones, and knowing a little more about their lives, however belatedly, is meaningful.  That written, it’s easy to become inured to this type of commentary when it’s so plentiful and predictably anodyne. 

            Thus I found myself unusually stirred by a recent crop of celebrity deaths, mostly because I felt some personal affinity for the belated.  Since this is a literary centric platform, I’ll lead with Tom Stoppard, my favorite contemporary playwright by heads, shoulders and torsos.  In the hierarchy of unfair distribution of talent, Stoppard was unrivaled.  It was as if his very thoughts were conceived in perfect, lyrically brilliant prose, and all he had to do was jot them down.  He not only understood how to render human speech as the finest writers would have wished, he improved on the product.  And he was born in Czechoslovakia. 

            When I wasn’t clinging to the cliffs far below Stoppard’s literary heights, I spent years designing and building houses, and all the stuff that goes inside.  I’ve written about the parallels between pleasing, yet functional, architecture, and a well wrought book, and I would say that Robert A.M. Stern and F. Scott Fitzgerlad had a lot in common, aside from mysteriously lettered names.

Stern managed to be both revolutionary and traditional, to impress and startle the senses, while creating sturdy structures sure to endure for all time.  I studied and tried to emulate both those guys, mostly unconsciously, since their guiding lights appeared to me self-evident.

            Among my other abiding pursuits has been playing bass and guitar in rock bands, as well as folk and bluegrass ensembles.  I knew early on I’d never be the lead guy, never a Hendrix or Doc Watson, but I was a serviceable rhythm guitarist honored to be a reliable backup for the virtuosos at the front of the stage.  In this occupation, Steve Cropper was the A.M. Stern, the Tom Stoppard of tasteful chops and steadfast rhythmic structure.  There’s a long list of huge pop hits that were composed around his guitar licks, which were woven around seemingly simple, elegant

phrasing, that every aspiring guitarist has to learn if they hope to be accepted into a jam session.  These contributions are so significant, so fully integral to the musical language we all use, that you hardly notice they’re there. 

            I was very aware of these important influences as I went along, but it wasn’t until Rob Reiner died that I realized he took up a similar space in my heart.  I was frankly astonished that he’d directed all those movies that I relish, his work being so protean and quietly influential.  To come back to the realm of literary expression, Reiner understood and valued fine writing.  It clearly mattered to him, and he knew how to make exceptional creativity accessible, but also bring well-deserved attention to its brilliance.  As such, he was the Maxwell Perkins, the Lorenzo de’ Medici of cinema.

                          Triteness is the offspring of sentimentality, and since there’s nothing like death for

inspiring sentiment, it’s hard to express genuine loss with the dignity it deserves.  So the best I can do is be grateful for what these men gave me over the years, nurturing my better parts and making the daily effort of life more worthwhile.

---

2025: Let's Not Do That Again

I could say I'm sorry to see 2025 coming to a close, but I fear my nose would grow so long that it would punch a hole right through my monitor.

To be clear, there are many things I'm grateful for, and many ways in which I'm lucky. I'm just not going to be talking about those particular things right now.

2025 has been a year of significant challenges for my family (I'm not going to be talking about those, either). We generally try to avoid politics as a topic here at SleuthSayers, so I won't dwell on that beyond saying that I'm not particularly happy with the direction the country is taking--or, for that matter, the direction my state is taking. I just have this weird thing about not caring for fascism, I guess.

To turn to matters we do talk about here--in 2025 I wrote only ten new stories. That's way, way, way below my average. Partly I think it's been the distractions, both personal and public, which so often have demanded my time and attention. Partly, I think, it's also been the increasing scarcity of markets. This was the year Down & Out Books went, well, down and out, and the year Black Cat Weekly announced they'll be ceasing publication late next year. I don't think I'm imagining the fact that there have been fewer interesting anthologies open for submissions. There are still markets out there, of course, but hunting for them seems to take more time these days.

(I should note that Down & Out now has a new owner, and BCW is very much open to continuing under new management, so, fingers crossed, maybe things aren't quite as dark as they seem.)

To be fair to myself, at least some of the time I would have given to writing has gone to what I think of as writing-adjacent activities, mostly associated with serving as the president of the Short Mystery Fiction Society. That counts … right?

It was also a slow year for publishing. I had eleven new stories come out in 2025 which, again, is well below my average. Now, I did have an additional five stories that would have been in Down & Out anthologies that didn't end up getting published, and I'm hopeful that those stories will see the light of day, perhaps in the very near future. 

And to look on the positive side, I am very proud of the stories that did come out. This was the first year I had stories appear in both Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine and Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. I was also honored to have a story nominated for a Thriller Award. I spent some time preparing my first collection, which should be coming out from Level Best Books in 2026. I also wrote my first collaborative story, and while I can't say anything specific about it, I will say it was a blast, and I hope to do more in the future.

So, all in all, I don't have much to complain of, but I do hope to write and publish more in the coming year. Stay tuned.

Here's hoping everyone reading this had a rewarding 2025, and may we all have a happy new year!

---

Happy Festivus! (a fun post)

This year, we have decided to embrace the spirit of Festivus.  This is because, I am the quintessential Canadian mutt.  Four parts Italian, one part Irish, one part English, a touch Chippewa, and the final bit was confusing. 

The Italian part is easy to explain.  Every year, my Sicilian grandmother put the plastic lighted crucifixes (made in Japan) in glaring rainbow colours, on the Christmas tree.  I was a bit confused by that, not only because it was gawd-awful tacky and fought with my budding interior designer.  But the part in the 10 Commandments about ‘no graven images’ seemed to be at risk here.

Nevertheless, we all looked forward to the blazing orange, green and red crucifixes, unaware that it was a sort of macabre thing to do to a Christmas tree.  Did I mention Halloween is my favorite holiday?

The Chippewa part was a tad more elusive.  I first got a hint that there might have been First Nations blood in our family when someone asked why we put ground venison in our traditional Christmas Eve spaghetti sauce.  True, we had a freezer full of deer, moose, salmon, and not much else.  Later, it occurred to me that I actually hadn’t tasted beef until I was ten, when for my birthday, Dad took us to the A&W for a real treat.  “This tastes weird,” I said, wrinkling my nose.  “It’s made from cow,” Dad said.

Of course, if I had been more on the ball, there were other clues.  But at the age of six, you don’t necessarily see things as out of the norm.  That summer in Toronto, I loved day camp.  They split us kids into groups named for First Nations tribes.  By happy coincidence, I got placed in the Chippewa tribe.  When I got home and announced this, the reaction was: “Thank God it wasn’t Mohawk.” 

The camp leaders were really impressed with my almost-authentic costume.  (Everyone else was wearing painted pillow cases.)

There's more, but it can be nicely summed up by saying that someone in the extended family always managed to put Halvah in my Christmas stocking.  The tradition continues. Talk about confusing...

So this year, I will put beef in the Italian spaghetti sauce, we’ll put up a Festivus tree, and there will be Halvah.  Happy Festivus to all!

Melodie Campbell celebrates Festivus on the shores of Lake Ontario, where she continues to write silly stuff for unsuspecting publishers.

 

 

Get Up. Fall Down. Get Up Again.

I will admit that I, too, thought "The master has failed more times than the beginner has even attempted" was a Chinese proverb. Apparently not – most sources give Stephen McCranie, the comic book artist, credit. Regardless, it's my favorite aphorism and at this point I've probably said it more times than McCranie.

Because I fail a lot.

When I was young, I dreamed of being a lab researcher, but a stint at the National Institutes of Health put paid to that.

I still cringe when I think of the way chimpanzees were housed in tiny crates in the labs, how experiments were scrapped and living animals "sacrificed" by the scores because the scientists wanted to attend a wedding or hit the slopes.

It would have been a dream job for some – I reported directly to two Nobel Laureates. But I was miserable and gave up my plans for a career in science.

I modeled for a time and I was terrible at it. I had the height but not the élan. I couldn't wear contact lenses so I had to whip my thick glasses on and off continually for pictures. I was clumsy in heels and once stepped right off a runway. Oops.

Acting was fun and I was good at it. So were a thousand other young actors with thicker hides than mine. Failed again.

I was doing pretty well as a soft-news journalist. I wrote a snarky and very popular column for Buzz, then a hot new magazine billed as "the talk of Los Angeles." I covered parties for InStyle and scandals for Redbook and the other "seven sisters" magazines.

Then I stepped away for a hot minute to have a baby and when I was ready to get back to work, the editors who had once supplied me with a steady stream of assignments had moved on. Nobody knew my name. Failed again.

My first novel was a chapter book for kids published by Bantam Skylark. The acquiring editor left the house before Dog Magic came out. Death knell. Same for my next two books, one horror and one suspense, both from a major house, and both "orphaned" before their debuts.

When a book is orphaned, there's no one at the publishing house to schmooze buyers at book fairs, treat drinks, and fight for you to get reviews. They save those efforts for their own discoveries, for understandable reasons. The results were predictable. There's that F word again.

I abandoned writing and decided to become a teacher. With no credential and no training, I landed a job at at a yeshiva, then segued that into a spot at a top independent school. Then another. After classes, I worked on a young adult novel I called Big and Bad and How I Got My Life! Back. That book was so damned good. I knew it would be a hit and I would join the ranks of superstar YA authors John Greene and Laurie Halse Anderson. I sent Big and Bad off to one publisher, who rejected it. Then I tossed it in a drawer and sulked for the next fourteen years. Not kidding.

One day I came across the manuscript on my hard drive, read it, and liked it a lot. I polished it up and shipped it off to a contest sponsored by Texas Review Press. Big and Bad came in second but they published it anyway, and the following year it won the Paterson Prize for Books for Young People. Big and Bad got a rave review in School Library Journal, which is the go-to nearly all schools and libraries consult when stocking their shelves. Shoulda been a contender - but that dang pandemic thing got in the way. Since you're all writers, I don't need to explain. No stock, no ship, no shelf, no sale.

So. Teaching. I love teaching and I love kids. I don't love schools and I can barely abide administrators. I've been fired from more schools than some states have in their school system. In fact I've been fired from almost every job I've ever held, although a couple of times I managed to squeak out a quick I quit before they could lower the axe.

So you're picking up a theme here, right? Failure after failure, sometimes my fault, sometimes just the way the cards were dealt. But every single failure taught me something. Lots of things, actually, and I use all of those things in writing fiction and poetry.

When I was a kid, my sister and I would fight over Ellery Queen and Alfred Hitchcock when they arrived each month. (Yeah, it was a long time ago - they were both still monthlies!) I can truly claim to be a life-long fan, but it didn't occur to me to try selling a story to Ellery Queen until I was sixty years old. Sixty! According to Guardian Life Insurance, the average American retires at sixty-two - and here I was trying something brand-spanking new. Scary!

Janet Hutchings rejected my story, of course - it was all wrong for Ellery Queen. She rejected the next one, too, but then she bought Krikon the Ghoul Hunter, and then a whole bunch more.

My stories from Ellery Queen have been recorded in podcasts, nominated for awards, given prizes, published as a collection, and selected for "Best Ofs." And of course I publish elsewhere, too - sometimes in the strangest places. I've published a poem in Fungi Magazine (yes, all about mushrooms!) and a story I wrote for The Saturday Evening Post is part of the national high school curriculum of Fiji. Yep. The island nation. Don't ask. I'm just grateful.

It's a crazy writing life, this one. Some mystery writers my age have been publishing short stories for fifty years, not seven years. I'm kind of a newbie. My heart still beats fast when Jackie Sherbow tells me she'll take a story for EQMM, or when an editor asks me to write a story for an anthology, or a literary journal picks up a poem, or a university professor tells me he's teaching one of my poems or stories. I still sulk when a piece gets turned down, and I have cried more than a few late-night tears over rejections from editors I thought adored me.

I'm still trying, and I'm still failing. I've failed a lot.

And I've succeeded a lot, too.

Because that's the only way to get anywhere in this world. Try, and fail. Then try and fail again. Because the master has failed more times than the beginner has even attempted.

Christmas Movies for the Ages — at Our House At Least

(This first appeared 10 years ago, but I think it's always good to look at (my) classics again!)

I love a good Christmas movie or story, but I take my entertainment with a little salt, thanks. Or at least a shot glass. And a little murder just adds to the fun.  Here's a list of my favorite Christmas movies, the ones my husband and I watch every year, and yes, we know the lines by heart:

We're No Angels, 1955

I first saw this when I was ten years old, back in the 60's, watching it on a black and white TV set, all by myself. I laughed until I cried, and I remembered lines from it for years afterwards. It warped me for life.

"I read someplace that when a lady faints, you should loosen her clothing." - Albert (Aldo Ray)

Three convicts escape from the prison on Devil's Island on Christmas Eve. There's Humphrey Bogart as Joseph, a maniac and master forger, Peter Ustinov as Jules, an expert safe-cracker, in prison only because of a "slight difference of opinion with my wife", and Aldo Ray as Albert, "a swine" of a heart breaker who only fell afoul of the law after asking his uncle for money (the illegal part was when said uncle said "no" and Albert beat him to death with a poker – 29 times, mam'selle). Oh, and their fellow-traveler, Adolphe - or is it Adolf?

"We came here to rob them and that's what we're gonna do – beat their heads in, gouge their eyes out, slash their throats. Soon as we wash the dishes." – Joseph

Anyway, these 3 convicts need money, clothing, passports - and they find it all at Ducotel's General Store, the famous Ducotel's, "the one who gives credit". Along with Felix (Leo G. Carroll), the most inept, innocent, and financially challenged manager in history, his beautiful wife, Amelie (played by Joan Bennett), and their daughter Isobel (Gloria Talbott, in full super virgin mode).

You can see where this is going: they get hired, they get interested, they get all warm fuzzy, they change their ways, everyone is happy. Right? Well, not quite. Because the big fat plum in this pudding is Basil Rathbone as Andre Trochard, who owns Ducotel's, and has come to Devil's Island - with his sycophantic nephew Paul - to do the books on Christmas Day. I love a good villain, and Basil Rathbone is as snooty, snotty, sneering, vindictive, scheming, insulting, arrogant, belittling, and generally nasty as they come. ("Your opinion of me has no cash value." – Andre Trochard.) He makes Ebenezer Scrooge look like a warm pussy cat.

Andre Trochard - "Twenty years in solitary – how's that for a Christmas present?"

Jules – "That's a lovely Christmas present. But how are you going to wrap it up?"

There's no Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, or Future in this one; no "God bless us, every one"; no Tiny Tim; but there's theft and forgery, fraud and deceit, murder and mayhem, all done with sharp, hilarious dialog. Go. Rent it now. Pour a Chateau Yquem (you'll understand later) or its equivalent, pull out a turkey leg, and enjoy! Merry Christmas! Compliments of the Season!

The Man Who Came to Dinner (1942), Monty Wooley, Bette Davis, Jimmy Durante, and more. The worst house guest in the world is also the most erudite, witty, arrogant, and popular man on the planet. Sheridan Whiteside was Kaufman and Hart's masterpiece (especially as played by Monty Wooley), based on (of course) the real Algonquin Club's founder, leader, gatekeeper and spoiled child, Alexander Woollcott.

Jimmy Durante, Mary Wickes (in her breakthrough screen role), and Monty Wooley

The play - and the movie - are chock full of characters who were based, almost libellously, on real people. Banjo = Harpo Marx. Beverly Carlton = Noel Coward. Lorraine Sheldon = Gertrude Lawrence, of whom Beverly Carlton says, in my favorite movie line of all time,

"They do say she set fire to her mother, but I don't believe it."

And Mary Wickes as Nurse Preen, who has to nurse the impossible Sheridan Whiteside:

"I am not only walking out on this case, Mr. Whiteside, I am leaving the nursing profession. I became a nurse because all my life, ever since I was a little girl, I was filled with the idea of serving a suffering humanity. After one month with you , Mr. Whiteside, I am going to work in a munitions factory. From now on , anything I can do to help exterminate the human race will fill me with the greatest of pleasure. If Florence Nightingale had ever nursed YOU, Mr. Whiteside, she would have married Jack the Ripper instead of founding the Red Cross!"

Somebody had to finally say it.

A/k/a Reborn (1981). Directed by Bigas Luna, "starring" Dennis Hopper as the snake-oil selling Reverend Tom Hartley, Michael Moriarty as Mark (a thickly-veiled Joseph), and (I kid you not, spoiler alert!) a helicopter as the Holy Spirit. While it has horrible production values, and was obviously made (in Italy, Spain, and Houston, TX) on rather less than a shoestring (I think all the money was spent on the helicopter), this may be one of the most interesting versions of the Nativity that's ever been done.  

"You're going to have a baby? I can't have a baby! I can't even take care of myself, much less a baby!" Mark.

The Thin Man (1934). William Powell and Myrna Loy. Machine-gun dialog, much of it hilarious. A middle-aged peroxide blonde and an incredibly young Maureen O'Sullivan. More drinking than anyone would dare put into a movie today, at least not without a quick trip to rehab for somebody, especially Nick Charles. And mostly true to Dashiell Hammett's plot.

"Is he working on the case?" "Yes, a case of scotch!"

Okay, a quick break for myself and the kids and the grandkids: A Muppet Christmas Carol (with Michael Caine), A Charlie Brown Christmas, How the Grinch Stole Christmas (narrated by Boris Karloff) A Christmas Story. Love, love, love them ALL.

"You'll shoot your eye out!"

Okay, back to more adult fare:

Love Actually (2003), mostly because I start laughing as soon as Bill Nighy starts cursing. (What can I say? I'm that kind of girl.)

"Hiya kids. Here is an important message from your Uncle Bill. Don't buy drugs. Become a pop star, and they give you them for free!" Truer words are rarely spoken in a Christmas movie…

© IMDb

Totally NON-secret NON-guilty pleasure: Blackadder's Christmas Carol (1988). Rowan Atkinson (Blackadder), Tony Robinson (Baldrick), Stephen Fry, Hugh Laurie, Miranda Richardson, Jim Broadbent and Miram Margolyes as Prince Albert and Queen Victoria, and Robbie Coltrane as the Spirit of Christmas…

© IMDb

"Mrs. Scratchit, Tiny Tom is fifteen stone and built like a brick privy. If he eats any more heartily, he will turn into a pie shop." God bless us, everyone.

Scrooge (A Christmas Carol) (1951). Alistair Sim. This is my favorite version, mostly because it feels like Dickens to me, because I love Fezziwig's sideburns, because of the hysterical charwoman, but mostly because Mr. Sim's Scrooge really ENJOYS being a hard-hearted miser from hell. Which makes his delight, after coming back from his Christmas travels among the spirits, more believable. Or at least I always find myself grinning from ear to ear...

"I don't deserve to be this happy. But I simply can't help it!"

Hey, there's 12 Days of Christmas, and this is only the first one – there's PLENTY of time to watch them all!

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Butterfly

I’ve been watching Butterfly, on Amazon Prime.  It only runs six episodes, unfortunately, ending in a cliffhanger, so that’s discouraging.  The ratings fell off, and the show wasn’t renewed.  I happen to like it a lot, but I admit it doesn’t break new ground.  You might find it similar to Citadel, for example.  My opinion, Butterfly is sharper and better acted, but it’s still slight, not chewy. 

Premise.  Private security contractor, with lethal skills, wants out.  Fakes his death, and drops off the radar.  Some ten years later, he resurfaces, to rescue his abandoned daughter, who’s now – you guessed it – an assassin for the same murder-for-hire crew the hero tried to shut the door on a decade before.  He makes contact, but of course her assignment from corporate is to kill him, and drop his body into a deep hole in the ocean. 

That’s the set-up, and what ensues is a lot of escape and evasion, awkward attempts at familial reconciliation, and a plethora of blood squibs.  So, yes, a little too familiar.  On the other hand, the production values are very high, terrific camerawork and fight choreography, very lucid and graceful, and physically intuitive.  The two leads are extremely effective, Daniel Dae Kim (Lost, among others - and he exec produces) and Reina Hardesty, but despite their chemistry, the material is too thin to sustain.

As it happens, there’s a newly restored and marvelously crisp new print of John Woo’s A Better Tomorrow (1986) out on Kanopy.  [Kanopy is a streaming service available through local public libraries, and probably available through yours; check it out.  Many hard-to-find titles, and art pictures, like Criterion, but free.]  If you’re not aware of the who and what, John Woo was a Hong Kong moviemaker who came to Hollywood in the early 1990’s, but was already an influence on Scorsese, Sam Raimi, and Tarantino.  The producer/director Tsui Hark put together the money for A Better Tomorrow, and it wound up at the top of the box office. 

A Better Tomorrow is the template for the Hong Kong action pictures that came after it.  It doesn’t have the polish or discipline of the feverish Hard Boiled, from 1992, but it established John Woo and made Chow Yun Fat a bankable star.  The stylized, kinetic violence is vivid and visceral, and sets off the quieter, more emotional scenes of male bonding and domestic fracture.  The trope of doubling, or twinning, two main characters who mirror each other, in spite of their antagonisms, a staple of later John Woo films, is fixed here, first.  (It also shows up in many other Hong Kong policiers, such as the Infernal Affairs trilogy, the inspiration for Scorsese’s Departed.)  Like the conventions of Westerns, or screwball, they’re self-referential.

Not to speak disrespectfully of A Better Tomorrow, which was astonishing and original when it came out, but the reason I’m bringing it up, with reference to the more recent Butterfly, is that its execution was head-spinning, it announced a director who was reimagining the way a movie told a story, fragmenting the frame.  (Hard not think of Sam Peckinpah, of course, and hard to imagine John Woo without Peckinpah’s vocabulary to draw on.)  Butterfly is imitative, heated execution and undercooked ideas.  Not the worst thing, of itself, but it suffers by comparison.