Owen Gleiberman Chief Film CriticEver since David Lynch, decades ago, flirted with the prospect of making a film of “The Secret Garden,” Frances Hodgson Burnett’s 1911 children’s novel, I’ve always leaned toward thinking it could make a great movie — and I’ve always imagined that movie as a spooky, earthy Lynchian dream, since that so connects with my memories of the book as a child.
It was read aloud to my fourth-grade class, and every time the characters entered the garden of the title, it seemed to be as romantically odd and mysterious a place as Wonderland or Oz: a lushly eerie gothic Eden — a paradise that could restore life because, ironically, it held memories of death.
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