The film festival ended for me with more of a whimper. The best two films were both tangential: Hard Eight by P.T. Anderson was screened as an honor to John Reilly and Conte d’Eté by Eric Rohmer was a nod to one of the festival judges, who acted in it. They managed to be better than competition films about alien jellyfish forcing the US to build huge walls to keep them out, a Canadian comedy about Jazz Chess, an offensive portrait of a derided Italian man with a mental disability who eventually had too much and killed his tormenters, and a wordless Kazakstani film about a rape avenged by a shaman. Other than the jellyfish thing, none of them were awful, but none were really good either.
One morning a student dropped her tray in the cafeteria and a glass shattered and shards stuck in her ankles. I pulled them out and disinfected the tiny wounds. It was my first taste of action in my role, and the dawning of my realization that I am actually a nurse. I have zero medical ability, but I can speak the language and am calm and reassuring.
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