Less painful cinema as confessional than I expected. Much more playful and questioning. Schrader’s “death movie”, he pays tribute to many masters while completely demystifying the cult around himself. Feels like he views us freaks with bemusement. It is, of course, a man with a diary though here that’s an Errol Morris Interrotron but I found this to be so much less angry self-flagellation from Schrader. He finds a wealth of humor in the idea that he’s someone to look up to. Sad, sure but like Master Gardener, finding peace. A beautiful goodbye to his friend but maybe, most importantly, a “can you lighten the fuck up?” letter to the fans. 

Loved it.