Tuesday, July 20, 2004
An Affair to Remember?
Yesterday, after taking Carlos to the airport, I returned home and crawled into bed. Roused myself up for a long yoga class, which turned into a private tutorial, since no one else showed up. Then I stopped at the video store, ambled home, and stayed in bed all day. I felt so decadent. Feeling sentimental, I rented An Affair to Remember, which I had never seen. Women sob about this movie. There's an entire motif of it in Sleepless in Seattle. Do you know it? Meg Ryan and Rosie O’Donnell sob into their popcorn, talking about it, talking about how people just don’t fall in love like that anymore.
I don't understand. I mean, yeah, the bantering between Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr was scintillating. Leo McCarey knew how to write. And it was thrilling to see a woman onscreen be as snotty and daring as I can be when I’m with a man I like. I’m relentless. So was she. But it was also over-sappy, saturated with color, and filled with strange musical numbers. At one point, after this off-screen accident, she becomes a music teacher, and the little children gather around to sing for her. In the middle of it, the two incongruously placed black children break out from the back and start doing a little dance. Goodness, was this 1958's version of equality?
Also, the ending is contingent upon her having been in a car accident and not wanting to tell him that she's paralyzed now, in a wheelchair. She’s trying to be brave, because she doesn’t want to be vulnerable for him. She doesn’t want him to feel like he’s responsible for her. But for godssakes, wouldn't you tell Cary Grant that you're disabled just to have him give you a back rub? Sorry for the rant, but that was really strange. It saddens me, really. God, falling in love is the most mysterious, gorgeous spinning experience, mostly beyond words. But so many of the archetypal romantic comedies are just plain dumb.
Yesterday, after taking Carlos to the airport, I returned home and crawled into bed. Roused myself up for a long yoga class, which turned into a private tutorial, since no one else showed up. Then I stopped at the video store, ambled home, and stayed in bed all day. I felt so decadent. Feeling sentimental, I rented An Affair to Remember, which I had never seen. Women sob about this movie. There's an entire motif of it in Sleepless in Seattle. Do you know it? Meg Ryan and Rosie O’Donnell sob into their popcorn, talking about it, talking about how people just don’t fall in love like that anymore.
I don't understand. I mean, yeah, the bantering between Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr was scintillating. Leo McCarey knew how to write. And it was thrilling to see a woman onscreen be as snotty and daring as I can be when I’m with a man I like. I’m relentless. So was she. But it was also over-sappy, saturated with color, and filled with strange musical numbers. At one point, after this off-screen accident, she becomes a music teacher, and the little children gather around to sing for her. In the middle of it, the two incongruously placed black children break out from the back and start doing a little dance. Goodness, was this 1958's version of equality?
Also, the ending is contingent upon her having been in a car accident and not wanting to tell him that she's paralyzed now, in a wheelchair. She’s trying to be brave, because she doesn’t want to be vulnerable for him. She doesn’t want him to feel like he’s responsible for her. But for godssakes, wouldn't you tell Cary Grant that you're disabled just to have him give you a back rub? Sorry for the rant, but that was really strange. It saddens me, really. God, falling in love is the most mysterious, gorgeous spinning experience, mostly beyond words. But so many of the archetypal romantic comedies are just plain dumb.
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