The Christian Case for Sensuality
How's that for a provocative title, eh? My teenaged self is prude-panicking right now, and it's all Kenneth Branagh's fault. But I'm getting ahead of myself. You see, it all started when I finally got around to watching the 1993 adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing . I'd been vaguely familiar with the film for years, of course, but had never actually sat down and tried it before. I expected to enjoy it, but I had no other expectations for my viewing experience. I certainly didn't expect to be as utterly entranced by it as I ended up being. The enchantment started working early, probably about five minutes into the show. As soon as those triumphal horns ushered in that sublime overture, I was hooked. The flock of revelers descending from the picnicking hill in flutters of tousled curls and white linen, racing toward the house ahead of the delightfully macho Returning Heroes — well, I don't mind telling you, Jeeves, I was Stirred. The rest of the fil