Skip to main content

Remembering Anne Heche

I don't have thoughts on "Donnie Brasco" or the Harrison Ford rom-com, but Anne Heche did star in one of my all-time favorite movies, a movie I re-watch once per year--"Walking and Talking."


Heche is unforgettable to me for having played one deeply ordinary control freak, when she must have been still in her twenties. Heche is "Laura," a woman who isn't sure how she feels about her engagement. (Her fiance is Todd Field, the brain behind "In the Bedroom.") Laura begins flirting with other men, and she picks fights with Todd Field; for example, she really wants Field to have a certain mole biopsied. Laura's concern is nice, but it's also overbearing, and it begins to feel paranoid and even monstrous.

A fight gets out of control, and later, Field tries to apologize. He presents Laura with a small jewelry box--a mea culpa. But the box actually contains the tiny, biopsied mole. This is a terrible, clumsy joke--and it's also slightly mean--and the engagement crumbles, once again.

Anne Heche is a mess throughout the movie, struggling with tiny indignities: a bad makeup consultation, a misunderstanding about a ring, a series of mysterious prank phone calls. She is wildly irrational--she plans her wedding even after dumping her other half--and still she just keeps trudging along. It's so easy to connect with her.

We wouldn't have "Laura" without Anne Heche--so that's what I'm thinking about this weekend. I'm so glad Heche made this movie.



Comments

  1. We say in my community: "May her neshama have an alyah" -- "May her soul be elevated" and, I would add, my she be sending us blessings from above now that her suffering on earth has ended and now that she is in The Light.

    ReplyDelete

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...

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...