I could never really choose a favorite book, but whenever I'm

When Lisa Lutz said, “I could never really choose a favorite book, but whenever I'm asked what my favorite movie is, I always say Withnail & I, a British film from 1987. It's funny and sad and absolutely gorgeous to look at. It's the film I can watch over and over again,” she was not merely confessing her taste in cinema — she was speaking to the duality of the human spirit, the strange harmony of laughter and sorrow that gives depth to our experience. Her words reveal a truth as old as art itself: that beauty lies not in perfection, but in contrast — in the tension between comedy and tragedy, between what is fleeting and what endures. The film she names becomes a symbol of that eternal dance, where humor masks heartbreak, and where, in the wreckage of dreams, something luminous still survives.

The origin of this reflection lies in the nature of Withnail & I, a film that has endured not through spectacle, but through its truth of feeling. Released in 1987, it tells the story of two struggling actors — lost, disillusioned, yet achingly alive — wandering through the gray fog of late-1960s England. It is a film of failure, of friendship, and of yearning, told with wit so sharp it cuts and with beauty so gentle it heals. That Lisa Lutz, a novelist herself, should find eternal companionship in such a story is no accident. For in its laughter she finds melancholy, and in its despair she finds grace — the same emotional alchemy that animates all great storytelling.

The ancients would have understood her affection for such a tale. The Greek playwright Euripides, master of both tragedy and irony, once wrote that “those whom the gods love, they make mad.” His heroes, like the characters of Withnail & I, teetered between humor and despair, aware of their own absurdity yet unable to escape it. They were mirrors for humanity — fragile, foolish, yet capable of great tenderness. Lutz’s admiration for this film is, at its core, a recognition of the heroic nature of the ordinary, of those who live without grandeur but with fierce, trembling honesty. The beauty she describes as “gorgeous to look at” is not mere scenery — it is the poetry of human imperfection.

There is also in her words an understanding of nostalgia, that bittersweet longing for what is gone yet never forgotten. To love a film so deeply that one can “watch it over and over again” is to treat it not as entertainment, but as a companion of the soul. The ancients revered such constancy in their devotion to poetry, returning again and again to the same verses of Homer or Sappho — not to learn something new, but to remember something eternal. In this way, Lutz’s favorite film becomes a kind of scripture for her — a well she returns to when she needs to be reminded of the beauty in brokenness, of the dignity in loss, of the absurd humor that keeps despair from consuming us.

Consider also the way she contrasts her inability to choose a favorite book with her certainty in this one film. Books, to a writer, are infinite — each a universe of thought. But a film, brief and complete, can capture the essence of a lifetime in two hours. In Withnail & I, Lutz finds something that transcends form — a work that is literary in its soul yet visual in its seduction. This reveals an ancient truth: that the art which moves us most is not bound by medium, but by authenticity. Whether spoken by an actor, written on a page, or sung by a poet, what endures is that which speaks to the shared ache of existence — the yearning to find meaning amid the absurd.

There is a story from the life of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor of Rome, that illuminates this same truth. Though burdened by duty, war, and loss, he wrote each morning in his private journal not of conquest, but of humility. He found comfort not in power, but in reflection — in seeing beauty even within decay. Like Lutz with her chosen film, Marcus returned again and again to his meditations, not because they changed, but because he did. Each return revealed something new — the same words, but a deeper understanding. This is the nature of the art we love most: it evolves with us, reflecting who we have become.

So, dear listener, let this be your lesson: cherish the art that speaks to your soul, that holds both your laughter and your tears. Do not seek perfection in it, for the most perfect works are those that dare to be flawed, that show you the world as it is — funny and sad and absolutely gorgeous to look at. When you find such a story, return to it often, as one returns to an old friend or a beloved place. Let it remind you that sorrow and joy are not opposites, but companions, walking hand in hand through the long corridors of life.

Thus, Lisa Lutz’s words are not about preference, but about reverence. Her love for Withnail & I is a testament to the enduring power of stories that embrace the human paradox — that we are at once tragic and comic, fragile and eternal. To find beauty in such contradiction is to live wisely; to laugh through it is to live well. And when, in your own life, you encounter moments that are both “funny and sad,” remember this truth: that in those moments lies the essence of art, and of being human — the quiet, miraculous ability to look upon the world and still say, “It is beautiful.”