Skip to main content

Married Life

My husband and I have different approaches to Oscar season.


I cannot bring myself to watch "The Brutalist." I believe deeply in the power of titles, and "The Brutalist" is among the least appealing titles I can imagine. The title seems to say: "The experience of watching--or sleeping through--this film will be brutal." It's not a title that draws me in.

Marc is more wide-eyed; he believes that Hollywood awards culture is a meritocracy; in his most innocent moments, he seems to think that the characters he observes are real people. Watching "Babygirl," he makes comments to suggest that it is Nicole Kidman--not "Romy"--who is living through a midlife crisis. Also, he expects that Romy/Nicole might look directly at the camera at any moment; Romy/Nicole might instruct us in an earnest way. "We come to this place for magic....that indescribable feeling....when the lights begin to dim...."

It's said that novelists sometimes regret their career choice, because the work changes a person's approach to reading. Richard Russo has observed, "I can't really get lost in a story anymore. I'm always noting how the artist moves around her items of furniture -- how she handles the tasks of stage management. I see the gears turning."

In that same way, I think Marc gets impatient when watching "SVU" with me. "That's Amy Landecker," I'll say. "She wouldn't agree to an SVU contract in 2025 unless this is a major role. You can expect a huge, heroic speech from her in Act Three...."

My spouse and I do have an impact on each other. Without Marc, I might not have found myself at a screening of "I'm Still Here." (Again, a title I'd revise. The title seems like a warning. You're going to sit in your chair for more than two hours--but wait. Look up at the screen. I'm STILL here.) Without me, Marc likely would not see "Flow," about a plucky capybara on a raft in the apocalypse. Both halves of this marriage are better off.

Can't wait for Oscar night.
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