Thursday, July 22, 2004
Before Sunset
Gabe and I went to see Before Sunset tonight, before he left for New York again. Ah, and it was a sweet, evanescent visit. Sun-drenched, food-filled, lots of talk and silly voices. Movie script conversations and Hydro-fit classes. Music. Long nights of sleep. Watching his latest filmic creations. And songs. Sushi at Chinoise. Raspberries and peaches on cereal. Coffee with Monica. And a sweet, easy goodbye at the airport. I love him dearly, that Clown.
But the movie.
I never saw Before Sunrise. It looked awkward and adolescent. I've never been a big fan of Ethan Hawke. Too much the hipster with that perma-mark goatee. In fact, Gabe reminded me this evening that I saw Ethan Hawke standing outside a club in New York, the first summer I visited there, and I wasn't impressed. Scrawny little pipsqueak, I seem to remember saying. I saw him again, on 10th Street, sitting on the steps of his brownstone with his kids, as I walked toward therapy. But that's about it for Ethan Hawke connections for me. So I didn't really plan to see this film.
But the reviews have been glowing. And Gabe and I love going to movies together, since we have the same sensibilities (and about music and food. People too, most of the time), and we love debriefing afterwards. There isn't much good playing right now, since it's the vapid season for movies: lots of guns, jiggling breasts, and thinly written scripts. He'd already seen Fahrenheit 911, so no seeing that. (And no, I haven't seen it yet. I know, I know, I'm abrogating my liberal duties, but I just haven't been able to stomach the thought on these gorgeous days. And I know it's going to make me cry. So there.) So we thought we'd see this--it was playing at the theatre just down the hill. I expected slight and stretching, but a pleasant diversion.
I love it when I'm wrong.
This movie moved me more than any movie in a long time. It all unfolds in real time, so you have the sense of immediacy and excitement when two people are falling in love through their banter and silences. To quote a Lisel Mueller poem I found recently:
"...a gaze anchored
in someone's eyes could unseat a heart...
could make the redolent air
tremble and shimmer with the heat
of possibility."
Why is it so hard to write about falling in love? And do it justice?
This film comes close.
The lovely banter dance when two people have chemistry, so they are both buoyed up by the play of conversation, and it doesn't really matter at all what they are saying. The way a single, casual touch on the arm can set off trembling in the bones. The small, beautiful specific details of two people in the same room, changing each other's lives, and too caught up in it to name it for what it is. And broken-heartedly, the way that one or the other can refuse to recognize it, because it feels too scary to make that leap.
The last half made me cry continuously, tears floating down my cheeks in a langorous stream. I could feel Gabe looking over at me and feeling it for me. It made me cry for clear reasons that I don't want to say here. If you don't know, then you can figure it out.
And the ending made everyone in the theatre gasp. I haven't heard that kind of visceral reaction to a film in a long time. I adored it. As with poems, the endings of movies have to be right. This one is.
Ah, I could go on. But I won't. I don't want to besmirch it by analyzing it. It just moved me. Gabe and I both left the theatre feeling quiet and connected with ourselves. I love how great films can put you in that space, where everything feels right for a moment. And everything feels like a possibility.
Gabe and I went to see Before Sunset tonight, before he left for New York again. Ah, and it was a sweet, evanescent visit. Sun-drenched, food-filled, lots of talk and silly voices. Movie script conversations and Hydro-fit classes. Music. Long nights of sleep. Watching his latest filmic creations. And songs. Sushi at Chinoise. Raspberries and peaches on cereal. Coffee with Monica. And a sweet, easy goodbye at the airport. I love him dearly, that Clown.
But the movie.
I never saw Before Sunrise. It looked awkward and adolescent. I've never been a big fan of Ethan Hawke. Too much the hipster with that perma-mark goatee. In fact, Gabe reminded me this evening that I saw Ethan Hawke standing outside a club in New York, the first summer I visited there, and I wasn't impressed. Scrawny little pipsqueak, I seem to remember saying. I saw him again, on 10th Street, sitting on the steps of his brownstone with his kids, as I walked toward therapy. But that's about it for Ethan Hawke connections for me. So I didn't really plan to see this film.
But the reviews have been glowing. And Gabe and I love going to movies together, since we have the same sensibilities (and about music and food. People too, most of the time), and we love debriefing afterwards. There isn't much good playing right now, since it's the vapid season for movies: lots of guns, jiggling breasts, and thinly written scripts. He'd already seen Fahrenheit 911, so no seeing that. (And no, I haven't seen it yet. I know, I know, I'm abrogating my liberal duties, but I just haven't been able to stomach the thought on these gorgeous days. And I know it's going to make me cry. So there.) So we thought we'd see this--it was playing at the theatre just down the hill. I expected slight and stretching, but a pleasant diversion.
I love it when I'm wrong.
This movie moved me more than any movie in a long time. It all unfolds in real time, so you have the sense of immediacy and excitement when two people are falling in love through their banter and silences. To quote a Lisel Mueller poem I found recently:
"...a gaze anchored
in someone's eyes could unseat a heart...
could make the redolent air
tremble and shimmer with the heat
of possibility."
Why is it so hard to write about falling in love? And do it justice?
This film comes close.
The lovely banter dance when two people have chemistry, so they are both buoyed up by the play of conversation, and it doesn't really matter at all what they are saying. The way a single, casual touch on the arm can set off trembling in the bones. The small, beautiful specific details of two people in the same room, changing each other's lives, and too caught up in it to name it for what it is. And broken-heartedly, the way that one or the other can refuse to recognize it, because it feels too scary to make that leap.
The last half made me cry continuously, tears floating down my cheeks in a langorous stream. I could feel Gabe looking over at me and feeling it for me. It made me cry for clear reasons that I don't want to say here. If you don't know, then you can figure it out.
And the ending made everyone in the theatre gasp. I haven't heard that kind of visceral reaction to a film in a long time. I adored it. As with poems, the endings of movies have to be right. This one is.
Ah, I could go on. But I won't. I don't want to besmirch it by analyzing it. It just moved me. Gabe and I both left the theatre feeling quiet and connected with ourselves. I love how great films can put you in that space, where everything feels right for a moment. And everything feels like a possibility.
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