"Walking and Talking." Anne Heche finds herself engaged and lusting after men who aren't her fiancee. She is a therapist, and she silently, mentally undresses her patients throughout their sessions. A fight erupts between Heche and her fiancee--perhaps about Heche's roving eye--and the fiancee almost manages to repair things. He makes a crucial misstep; he presents to Heche, as a gift, a tiny box in which there's a biopsied mole. Heche had always been nagging him: "Get your mole removed!" The gift doesn't go over well--this movie is all about gifts failing to "land well"--and again the engagement is off.
Tiny insights about relationships abound. Liev Schrieber says to Catherine Keener: "I broke up with you because you had made me too important. You didn't have a life, or wants, of your own." Schrieber explains how he's breaking things off with a woman with whom he has--strictly--phone sex; even such an odd, indirect relationship requires a formal break-off. Keener presents Schrieber with leather pants--an endearing, misguided gesture, and the two officially reunite when Schrieber saves Keener from a creepy prank caller. (Even that touch--what makes a prank caller? who would do this, over and over?--feels special, idiosyncratic. In Holofcener's world, we are all stumbling around, baffled by our own desires, making messes with, and for, one another.)
The movie ends with the two female protagonists acknowledging growing pains; one has become wrapped up in her own marital engagement, and the other has felt abandoned. That's all--a quiet precursor to "Bridesmaids." It's still a radical move to make a film about two women. It's radical, also, to call it "Walking and Talking"; it's a purely descriptive title; we're discussing a movie where people walk, and talk, and nothing else happens. (Holofcener seems to be making a defamiliarizing move here; she is like a friendly alien, saying, "Look, Earthlings; look how much crazy emotion can be wrapped up in the simple process of walking and talking, giving and taking.")
One of my favorite novelists is Anne Tyler; she also writes about desire, and about how people don't always know "how to behave" (if there even is such a thing as "proper behavior"). For example, in "Back When We Were Grownups," a significant plot twist involves whether or not a character should invite an old friend to a family dinner party. Just a tiny decision--but the moment of crisis feels almost earth-shaking. I love writers who can underline our absurdity--can point out how foolish we are, without seeming cruel or reductive. Holofcener and Tyler are kindred spirits. And that's the movie news from Planet Dan. More soon.
***
The first chapter of "Charlotte's Web" is a perfect short story. A stranger comes to town. A theme of mortality is announced in the first sentence: "Where's Papa going with that axe?" asks Fern. Indeed! It's important that we first see Fern asking a question; the opening note she sounds is one of curiosity. White is starting us off in medias res: Papa has already done some thinking about this axe, and about the job he needs to do. What follows is a bit like "Antigone": There are two sides in a life-and-death conflict, and both have a valid point. It surely is impractical to keep Wilbur alive; the energy invested in this sentimental project could go toward helping other, "more promising" souls. (A utilitarian argument.) But: Wilbur is a living being. How can you turn your back on him? (Does this bit remind you slightly of Trump, and immigration policy, and "the Wall"?)
White has dreamed up his fictional world so fully, your senses are assaulted. As Bruce Handy has observed, White notes the grass, the rain, the sneakers: "The grass was wet and the earth smelled of springtime. Fern's sneakers were sopping by the time she caught up with her father." The nose: "The kitchen table was set for breakfast, and the room smelled of coffee, bacon, damp plaster, and wood smoke from the stove." The eyes: "Looking up at her was a newborn pig. It was a white one. The morning light shone through its ears, turning them pink."
Character is swiftly delineated through action. When we see Fern's brother, Avery, he has overslept, he's "heavily armed" (with air rifle and wooden dagger), and he completely disregards Mother's command ("Wash your hands!") His response, the bratty, and very plausible: "That's a fine specimen of a pig--it's no bigger than a white rat." Scolding, long-suffering mother, with a new command, and with diminishing returns: "Wash up and eat your breakfast, Avery! The school bus will be along in half an hour." (Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting new results.) Wry, large-hearted Dad: "Fern was up at daylight, trying to rid the world of injustice."
Fern has fought her father, her irritated mother, and her snotty brother. In the final moments of the chapter, she reaps her reward. She daydreams about her pig, chooses his name, and finds herself buoyed, in a tedious geography class, by thoughts of her First Love. "What's the capital of Pennsylvania?" asks the teacher, annoyed, puncturing Fern's bubble. Lost in her dream, Fern responds with "Wilbur"--and a blush. A smart, understated ending: Love upends our world. White has made his point simply through showing--no telling. He makes it look easy.
***
The first chapter of "Charlotte's Web" is a perfect short story. A stranger comes to town. A theme of mortality is announced in the first sentence: "Where's Papa going with that axe?" asks Fern. Indeed! It's important that we first see Fern asking a question; the opening note she sounds is one of curiosity. White is starting us off in medias res: Papa has already done some thinking about this axe, and about the job he needs to do. What follows is a bit like "Antigone": There are two sides in a life-and-death conflict, and both have a valid point. It surely is impractical to keep Wilbur alive; the energy invested in this sentimental project could go toward helping other, "more promising" souls. (A utilitarian argument.) But: Wilbur is a living being. How can you turn your back on him? (Does this bit remind you slightly of Trump, and immigration policy, and "the Wall"?)
White has dreamed up his fictional world so fully, your senses are assaulted. As Bruce Handy has observed, White notes the grass, the rain, the sneakers: "The grass was wet and the earth smelled of springtime. Fern's sneakers were sopping by the time she caught up with her father." The nose: "The kitchen table was set for breakfast, and the room smelled of coffee, bacon, damp plaster, and wood smoke from the stove." The eyes: "Looking up at her was a newborn pig. It was a white one. The morning light shone through its ears, turning them pink."
Character is swiftly delineated through action. When we see Fern's brother, Avery, he has overslept, he's "heavily armed" (with air rifle and wooden dagger), and he completely disregards Mother's command ("Wash your hands!") His response, the bratty, and very plausible: "That's a fine specimen of a pig--it's no bigger than a white rat." Scolding, long-suffering mother, with a new command, and with diminishing returns: "Wash up and eat your breakfast, Avery! The school bus will be along in half an hour." (Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting new results.) Wry, large-hearted Dad: "Fern was up at daylight, trying to rid the world of injustice."
Fern has fought her father, her irritated mother, and her snotty brother. In the final moments of the chapter, she reaps her reward. She daydreams about her pig, chooses his name, and finds herself buoyed, in a tedious geography class, by thoughts of her First Love. "What's the capital of Pennsylvania?" asks the teacher, annoyed, puncturing Fern's bubble. Lost in her dream, Fern responds with "Wilbur"--and a blush. A smart, understated ending: Love upends our world. White has made his point simply through showing--no telling. He makes it look easy.
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