Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean— the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down— who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
When I watch a movie, stream a TV show, or read a book that I think is extraordinary, I usually will devour every review I can find; research, sometimes exhaustively, the artists associated with it in the hope that a touch of their genius might somehow touch me; and look to talk with others about what they thought of the work.
Not so with Derek DelGaudio’s lyrical masterpiece In & Of Itself on Hulu. I don’t want to know anything about DelGaudio or about how this production came into being or about how he did what he did in the final few minutes of the show because I fear I will not only ruin the magic for myself by trying to reduce it to its elemental components but also will demonstrate that I have understood nothing about the film’s sacred message. So you’ll just have to see it for yourself.