By Steven Boone
As I watched Andrey Khrzhanovsky's A Room and a Half at this year's New York Film Festival, a woman sitting next to me couldn't stop crying. The film was putting her through some stuff. It was sort of putting me through some stuff, too. At one pivotal moment, a transatlantic phone call between characters long separated by exile, I felt myself ready to let loose with the waterworks, but I gritted my teeth, clenched the armrests to hold them off. Then came the Russian folk songs. The crying lady started singing along quietly, unobtrusively but passionately with the characters onscreen. Their nostalgia was her nostalgia was mine. I bit my tongue off to keep from joining in. When the lights went up, I searched in vain for a tissue to give her, but turned to her and said, "You're Russian." She said, "Yesyesyes," and spent the next half hour excitedly telling me everything I wanted to know about the movie's subject, the Nobel Laureate poet Joseph Brodsky; about the beauty of his hometown, St. Petersburg ("the airfare is so low these days—you must go!"); about Brodsky's unique stature as a hero for poor self-taught artists ("When you grow up the way Brodsky did, you don't need to go to a school to learn what poetry is. Life gives it to you.") Continue Reading »













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