The transfer? Sharp enough to cut glass, saturated to the point where you can practically smell the cigarette smoke curling off a $500 silk shirt. The special features? Scholars waxing poetic about melodrama as high art, archival interviews where everyone sounds too classy to admit just how much fun they had making trash look divine.
You watch it in a haze, thinking: This is *Dynasty* before *Dynasty*, this is Fassbinder’s bible, this is what happens when postwar America overdoses on its own success. And then, just when you think you’ve got it pegged, that wind blows, the credits roll, and you realize: You don’t watch *Written on the Wind*—it watches you.
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