Skip to main content

Movie Love

 "Philomena" is an odd-couple story. A cynical journalist semi-randomly meets an old lady whose son was robbed from her by the Catholic Church. Then, like detectives, the two new friends go off in search of the son.

One would expect the search to be moderately challenging, but not impossible: Hasn't the Church kept records? No, a mysterious fire has interceded. Also, you can't talk to the elderly nuns who might remember Catholic misdeeds from the fifties and sixties; these nuns are locked away like Mrs. Rochester in shadowy hallways.

Bizarrely, at an Irish bar, our heroes discover that the Church actually sold abducted babies to wealthy Americans mid-century. This leads to an intercontinental flight, and then one new horror after another: The full discovery of the Church's wrongdoing is saved for the climactic scene.

"Philomena" won many awards, and it nearly won a Best Picture Oscar; that's partly because of the script, which manages to be a serious investigation of evil and forgiveness, while also seeming comedic. (In one scene, Philomena discovers that her son is gay....We expect her to make a fuss, but she shrugs and says, "Actually, I'd imagined he might be bi-curious....")

My husband and I landed on "Philomena" because we love the director, Stephen Frears; we loved his equally-great miniseries, "A Very English Scandal." Frears tells grand stories about world-historical shifts, but he also has an eye for the absurd: a pet dog's role in a botched assassination, a crusading Irishwoman who takes a break from her heroic work to give a rhapsodic speech about a hotel buffet.....

I'm having a "Frears re-encounter"..... and I'm thinking about "The Grifters" ....or "Dangerous Liaisons" ....maybe next....

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...