Skip to main content

Emma Thompson: "Leo Grande"

 When Glenn Close was campaigning for "The Wife," she would tell a story about her mother, on her deathbed: Stricken, Close, Sr., looked around and said, "Wait. In my life....I never *did* anything...."


This could have inspired the makers of "Good Luck to You, Leo Grande," which has Emma Thompson fighting against a ticking clock. Thompson plays Susan Robinson--yes, the writer jokes about "Mrs. Robinson"--a person in her sixties who would very much like to have one orgasm before her seventieth birthday. This story is deeply, deeply sad, and Thompson is well aware that she isn't just making a sex comedy.

In the "Oscar reel" moment (although this film isn't eligible for Oscars), Susan Robinson recalls having been twenty; she was a kid on a family vacation, and a waiter began to seduce her late at night. But a noisy car disrupted the scene. Susan has thought about this night, on a daily basis, for forty years. As Emma Thompson recites her lines, she begins sobbing uncontrollably; this is "lightning in a bottle."

I don't really care about the rest of the movie; I don't have much interest in the poor guy who has to try to hold his own on-screen with Ms. Thompson for two hours. I'm just happy that Thompson has found a complicated new character; I'm amazed that this particular career now includes "Leo Grande," on top of "Wit," on top of "Angels in America," on top of "Howards End" and "Sense and Sensibility" and "Late Night" and "An Education" and "Henry V" and "Ellen" and "Sweeney Todd" and "Meyerowitz Stories" and "Remains of the Day" and "Harry Potter" and "Primary Colors."

I look forward to Thompson's 2020s, and 2030s, and I hope she will keep acting and writing as long as she can.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

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...
3 comments
Read more

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...
1 comment
Read more

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...
1 comment
Read more