Yes, the movie was Blue Valentine. When I first heard of this film, I thought, shit---a hipster's paradise. Brooklynite and art-house queen Michelle Williams methodacting love and hate with closet grafitti losangeleno warrior ( also known for his portrayal of a Jewish neo-Nazi) Ryan Gosling, with a title named after a Tom Waits album. And Grizzly Bear doing the soundtrack.
I hated the idea of it. It was irresistible.
So finally, despite a schedule stifled in academic tedium, I managed to swerve my Honda through the genteel Kansas City rush hour traffic and catch a show at the gorgeously cozy Glenwood Arts theater ( also with an ice cream parlor, manned by displaced videostore nerds, with flavors named after movies and charmingly sadistic childrens' books---Peppermints in the Parlor). Surprising for a Monday night, there was a crowd.
The film, itself, was insightful, beautiful, not quite as precious or prententious as I feared, with absolutely gorgeous cinematography ( done by half-Indian Andrij Parikh--yeah, a brutha!). There was some beautiful dialogue, that I later learned was improvised. I recall specifically a scene where Dean ( Gosling's character) is talking about love, about marriage, how men are probably more romantic than women----in that they resist the idea of love so much that when they succumb, it's a more complete surrender. Falling in love, but from a higher elevation. The way the romance unfolds is charming, between the tap-dancing, a ukelele, a bus ride, and a lost locket: it follows a familiar plot trajectory in an adoringly visceral way. The love scenes and kisses are also incredibly tactile, though the most graphic of the lot, is actually in the other story----their undoing. It's sad, complex, more tragic as we learn more of the story.
The second part of the story is unbearable. It takes place in a cheap motel tailored for lovemaking. The couple, trying to deal with the death of their dog and their crumbling relationship, buy booze and choose between themed rooms, geared towards fornication. They choose a futuristic setting, with no windows, just a rotating bed, a glow of blue lights and strategic mirrors. It's almost exposing the charade behind being in love, as if the laughs, flowers, chocolate, the high, the platitudes posing as poetry is just a ruse for something far more basic, necessary, something that will inevitably fade.
I am not entirely sure why, but I cannot say I loved the movie, and it may be because it didn't fully realize itself or because I had a baseline irritation with the film's characters (Why does Dean drink and act stubborn? Why is Cindy no fun anymore?). Can the complacency born from that sort of selfless bliss really rot that badly?
Or maybe I know this love story from own life. And I see it unfolding in another person's life. All this may mean that my discomfort and even disappointment with the film is an intended effect. I struggle to articulate why. But the fact I woke up the next morning and felt the need to discuss it with myself, with my guy, with my friends---it probably speaks to the relative success of the movie.
Or maybe I'm just a sucker for a lovestory with a ukelele.
And I wanted it to end happily.
