Wanda, the first and only film by Barbara Loden, is—as Bérénice Reynaud put it in her essential essay “For Wanda”—a “small, forgotten masterpiece.” I wrote about it over at Movie Mezzanine. (You can also read more about it by critics like Richard Brody and Tony Paley.) In Wanda, Loden pins down a certain type of woman, as well as the desolate real-world spaces she lives in, and the very real kinds of sadness she experiences. The film’s so obviously drawn straight from life that you could nearly mistake it for someone’s especially depressing home movies, with the fuzziness of its 16mm images and soundtrack (the latter totally devoid of non-diegetic music) doing nothing to dispel this impression. As too with life, so much of Wanda is connective tissue. Our “heroine” walks, bed–hops, idles around Scranton, and eventually has her heart broken for the umpteenth time. I’d hesitate to call any of it beautiful, but it is powerful: a movie you can’t shake, and whose like may never really come again.