[Synopsis: Life for a happy couple is turned upside down after their young son dies in an accident. Based on a play by David Lindsay-Abaire, directed by John Cameron Mitchell and starring Nicole Kidman, Aaron Eckhart and Dianne Wiest.]
Becca: Does it ever go away?
Nat: No, I don’t think it does. Not for me, it hasn’t – has gone on for eleven years. But it changes though.
Nat: I don’t know… the weight of it, I guess. At some point, it becomes bearable. It turns into something that you can crawl out from under and… carry around like a brick in your pocket. And you… you even forget it, for a while. But then you reach in for whatever reason and – there it is. Oh right, that. Which could be aweful – not all the time. It’s kinda… [deep breath] … not that you’d like it exactly, but it’s what you’ve got instead of your son. So, you carry it around. And it doesn’t go away. Which is…
Becca: Which is what?
Nat: Fine, actually.
If “The Truman Show”, ” Man on the Moon” and “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” were the only movies Jim Carrey had ever made, we’d barely remember his name, but when we did, we’d think of him as an Actor. That’s right. The capital “A” kind. But of course, those aren’t the only movies he ever made and they’re not what turned him into an eye-rolling, guffawing household name. It was, however, the caliber of those films and the possibility of a similar performance, which brought me to the theater for “The Number 23″.
The plot is basic enough. An ordinary guy with an ordinary life gets sucked into the psychosis of a novelist whose numerological obsession has overtaken his life. As Walter (Carrey) gets deeper into the book, he begins to envision himself and those around him as the characters within it. It’s in these heavy-handed and highly-stylized scenes from the novel that everything goes glaringly wrong with the film. Or deliciously right.
As the ending credits rolled on Clint Eastwood’s “Flags of Our Fathers,” my son G.T. leaned in close, and whispered, “Well? How many?” It is the question he always asks, and I love that he still cares enough about my opinion, to ask it.
You see, I am a bleeding-heart pacifist, cohabitating with a miniature warmonger. There are nicer ways to express this, but none of them demonstrates the political and ideological divide that separates my 14-year-old son and me. For a while, I figured it was one of those phases he’d grow out of. I even gave in to his choice of Summer Youth Programs, and sent him to Camp Pendleton for 10 days, in hopes that a taste of Boot Camp might change his mind. It didn’t. More than ever and more than anything, he wants to be a soldier.
The whole thing might well have become unmanageable, except for the Saturday Afternoon Truce, instated more than a year ago, and resulting in the shared experience of according to my Netflix account history 62 war-related films. What history teachers left out or glossed over during my educational years, this teenaged historian is all too delighted to teach me. So much so that I have to hide the remote, so he can’t pause every few minutes with trivia. “Do you see that plane there? We only used those in the Pacific Theater.” “Wow, OK. Can you hit PLAY again?”
There’s no easy way to say this, so please forgive me for being blunt. It has, however, become glaringly apparent that the Wachowskis do not like you. Oh they might let you buy them dinner at some swanky restaurant, and will most probably smile and nod as you praise them endlessly for “The Matrix”, but when you excuse yourself to pay the check, just know that they’re rolling their eyes and making lame jokes at your expense. Please, don’t take it personally, because it’s not just you. In fact, judging from their adaptation of Alan Moore’s “V For Vendetta”, Andy and
Larry Lana Wachowski don’t think too highly of any of us.
I tell you this, not out of spite or some unfulfilled desire for an ugly scene, but because I want you to go armed into that swanky restaurant, fully prepared to call them on their dismissal of the audience as sappy, unsophisticated, and more comfortable with grandiose explosions and spurting blood than with difficult questions, complex characters and ambiguity. To that end, I shall outline for you their three most egregious sins. (I’d say “four sins”, except that sheer clumsiness is probably more of an unfortunate fault than an outright sin.) Read more
t's lucky that I chose to see "Brokeback Mountain" alone, in the pouring rain of last Sunday morning, at the ungodly movie-viewing hour of 10:30 a.m., with a few dozen strangers scattered throughout the theater. I don't think I could have managed a casual after-the-movie conversation with anyone at that point. Also, a companion might have noticed that my face and neck and both sleeves were wet with tears, rather than rain, which is, I suppose, my way of saying that the film wrenched my heart right out of my chest.