Dear Future Beau: Please read me Ondaatje when we are old

I'm really bored by romantic movies, for the most part. Thus far, the most pronounced exception to that rule is Secretary. Some will doubtlessly question why I classify Secretary under the heading "Romantic Movie," but I guess, to me, I think it's the MOST romantic movie. It's about two really weird people who, between the two of them, happen to have a matching set of emotional suitcases. Regardless of their various and sundry kinky sex games, that's really pretty sweet. Because I don't have much of a cinematic sweet tooth, (at all, at all, at all!) I find that that film tests the limits of my gag reflex without pushing me over the line. To me, this is the mark of good romantic movie.

And here comes Away From Her, another sort of romantic movie altogether. All those movie critic people have been talking up Sarah Polley's directorial debut for a while. And Away From Her is, pretty much, all it's cracked up to be. It's a lovely artistic collaboration between three women, and the breath of each is readily apparent throughout. It's Polley's own adaptation of Alice Munro's lyrical short story, "The Bear Came Over the Mountain." Munro's muscular, palpable presence haunts the film in its poetic and incisive dialogue, as does Polley's general persona. For me, because I've been watching Polley's acting for years--from The Sweet Hereafter through Go and all the way on up through The Secret Life of Words-- Polley's wide-eyed vulnerability and dutifully contained passions pervade this film. And the soul of the director finds its avatar in the body of Julie Christie, the third point of the creative triangle.

Beautiful women often prove an unforeseen challenge for directors-- the strength of their visage alone often overtakes the story or tone or impetus behind the film. And it's undeniable that watching a woman as lovely as Julie Christie weather the aging process could be distracting. But she is so understated and thoughtful in her performance that there was no reason to ugly her up in the least. And though we can't keep our eyes off her face, I don't think a less perfect face could have carried such a role. Her character is rapidly progressing along the Alzheimer's trajectory. To praise Christie and Polley for not robbing this character, Fiona, of her dignity (they don't) would be cheap praise, indeed. There is something far more wrenching going on within Fiona's progressive vacancy. And while I feel at a loss in terms of being able to name that something, I can't help but marvel at the Christie's layered performance. And it goes above and beyond the usual beautiful-woman-destroyed thing, like we in films like Monster's Ball or, say, Glenn Close in Dangerous Liaisons.

And she's not even the real main character. Fiona's husband Grant, as played by Gordon Pinsett, is stoically heartbroken throughout. The film opens with a ritualistic evening meal, followed by even more ritual--his reading a very recognizable excerpt from The Cinnamon Peeler aloud. Even if I didn't think Michael Ondaatje was about the only writer around who could tickle my sentimental bone (yeah, it's buried really fucking deep-- but I guess I have to admit that I, too, am equipped with just such a bone), it would be hard to not get all mushy over a couple of old people who are still in love after 40 some years. We learn that they've slogged through assorted nonmonogamous interludes and other events that might stress out a marriage--including the Alzheimer's itself. There is, however, no doubt that these two belong together. And so, after Fiona goes to live in a facility, we follow Grant's attempts at daily living and it is clear that, really, his perspective is the driving one. He version of their history is, after all, the more reliable of the two.

I've relayed a handful of theories about the nature of life on this planet over the course of this blog--and I have one about climate and human temperaments that I've yet to tell. Are you surprised I have yet another crackpot theory about something random? So, basically, I've noted a strange correlation between art forms that come from cold places vs. those that come from warm places. If you compare German painters to Italian painters, it's like comparing a turnip to a nectarine. The work of the former tends bloodless and rooty--fascinating in its hardness, its colorlessness, while the other is fleshy and fat-- tangible and lusty. Consider Lucas Cranach the Elder as compared to Raphael. Compare Kirchner to Boccioni. Similarly, think of the New York art scene in comparison to what shows in galleries in San Francisco or Los Angeles. I tend to think New York poets have a different sensibility than California poets, too. And so, I look at a film like Away From Her, and it could be nothing if not Canadian-- Munro and Polley both claiming Canada as their points of origin. These folks are contained. They are not explosive in their grief. They emote in the same way their landscape does--conservatively.

And perhaps this is why I think this is a love story that I can like. I like a Canadian love story, just like I like an Mississippian sex drama (a la Black Snake Moan). In any case, I do hope Sarah Polley's quiet, measured directorial career has some legs. She's fun to watch.