ately it feels like everywhere I look obscure old films are being dusted off and presented to eager publics. Even a right-wing newspaper like London’s had cause last November to speak of a “repertory boom” in the city where I live, deeming it “the year’s most unlikely media trend.” Their idea of what this looks like is a bit different than mine; not everyone is “suddenly” lining up to see (1949). What I have in mind can’t exactly be described as “repertory” in the standard sense, since it involves nothing like cycling through an established set of titles. Rather than the pleasures of the classics, it’s about reaching for the deepest of deep cuts. I’m thinking of the fetish for prints with provenance, the vogue for the unfinished and the lost, and the large number (and high quality) of festivals and exhibitions presenting extensive historical materials, far beyond the usual suspects who have been doing it forever. I’m referring to restorations so brilliant one can scarcely believe they had been absent from screens for so long (e.g., , 1971) and presentations of curiosities that are, let’s face it, sometimes more interesting
