Content area
Full Text
Every once in a while someone asks the awkward question, "whatever happened to the richly imaginative strain of British cinema?" The list of this tradition's avatars always includes the likes of Powell and Pressburger, Nic Roeg and John Boorman, directors unafraid of symbolism, fantasy and (sometimes) vivid colour. Nichola Bruce's I Could Read the Sky (see page 55) is too small and modestly budgeted a film to stand more than shoulder high in that company, and, as its subject matter is entirely Irish, it...