Viewing Bill Guttentag and Dan Sturman’s Nanking is emotionally devastating. The film is a record of the Japanese occupation of Nanking in 1937, which entailed unimaginable cruelty. In addition to the wholesale slaughter of the Chinese, the Japanese committed 20,000 acts of rape in the first month of occupation, according to the Tokyo Tribunal on War Crimes, convened after World War II.
So here we go again. The grit of darkened seasons past between the eyes, across the brow. The purple cloths of grief, tall cloistered candles, numbered days. Six more weeks of wintered trudging through a wilderness bereft of alleluias. All this to show that everything we know— and are—is dust and will return in just the way it came and always has come. Yet, here and there, bent brave above the snow the clustered Lenten rose bleeds color from pale sunlight, gently points itself toward a cross, an emptied cave, that bright unending summer glimpsed in childhood, and forever after longed for past the terminus of measured time.
There are few tasks more daunting for a filmmaker than straddling the line between comedy and tragedy. It is hard enough to establish a tone for a movie without the added challenge of making the funny stuff and the melancholy moments work together like the ingredients of a magic potion.
For nearly 75 years, travelers on the Pennsylvania Turnpike could pull off the highway and walk up the steps to St. John the Baptist Catholic Church to pray or attend mass. The church features rich wood and hand-carved accents, a beautiful staircase to a loft, and 14 Tiffany stained-glass windows. But the days of the “Church of the Turnpike,” 90 miles east of Pittsburgh, could be numbered. A highway widening project is under way that will permanently remove the legendary steps in two or three years (RNS).