Skip to main content

I Lost It at the Movies

 "To Die For" came out before I entered high school--before!--and it still stays in my mind.


It's the story of Suzanne Stone, a character built off a real-world human, Pamela Smart. Ms. Smart conspired to have her own husband murdered, and that's also what happens in "To Die For."


Suzanne, a sociopath, can't understand why life won't just conform to the shape of a TV narrative. Why would anyone wonder if Suzanne wants to have a family? ("Two problems with that: You can't cover a royal wedding if you're pregnant.....And, also, who wants to look at you afterward?") Suzanne recognizes an opportunity for media coverage at her own husband's funeral, so she pulls out a boom box and looks mournful for the entirety of a song, "All By Myself." Suzanne can't be bothered with a troubled teen's story about an assault: She waves a hand impatiently and says, "You know what? You put that memory in a box, and you put that box far, far away.....Then it's like the event never happened...."


I adore Suzanne, just as I adore Bruno in "Strangers on a Train": I like the icy stare we get when Suzanne says "goodnight," on TV, to her murdered husband. I like the way Suzanne invents a fictional "Weather Center" for her bizarrely intense low-budget meteorology bulletins. And I like the weird sexual innuendo involved in Suzanne's creepy speech about her dog.


But--again, like "Strangers on a Train"--"To Die For" gives us *more than one* great character. The movie would suffer if we didn't have Joaquin Phoenix struggling to form sentences, Illeana Douglas plotting against an arch-villain, and Matt Dillon getting philosophical about potted plastic greenery.....


Well, I love this movie. And I always will. So, so inspired....

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...