French toast and bacon are matinee ideation.
A line in the sand is an ambiguous figure, an announced boundary but surely a fragile one. This is not to congratulate myself for demographic-hopping—two pairs of female friends, today, are my company, seated at my two and ten o’clock—but to sympathize for once with a nation that fights in a desert so cross-hatched with lines, now, as to be a mirror, a maze, and a text. This film is based on a popular book I’m sorry to admit I haven’t read.
Where does a love letter begin? It begins: I am lost. Not one but two catty friends of mine have called starlet Amanda Seyfried a skank. I don’t know, she sings nice and makes a convincing bruised flower, is yellow and white as a farm-fresh egg, which some like. The guy’s all Abercrombie and Fitch. 9/11, Iraq, and two autistic characters pull the young lovers apart. Over a coin collection father and son are, across years, both estranged and reconciled. My father and I had hobbies too, but more interesting ones: we went, every weekend, to the movies.
One half of one of the female pairs is coming from a bathroom break just as the sex scene—finally! in a barn!—begins, and her friend leaps up to wave her, with two manic hands, back in. The lovers wait so long. As Anne Carson reminds us, the Greeks compared eros to holding an ice cube in your hand. The giddy, not-a-second-longer pain of that.
No comments:
Post a Comment