Holiday break at Chez V and a few movie reviews

Ten-year- old E-Grrrl has been out of school since December 21 and hasn’t requested a single play date. She’s entertained herself steadily for more than two weeks, making art, reading book after book after book, playing her Nintendo DS, and doing jigsaw puzzles. She's been clamoring for all things domestic, and and asked me to teach her to crochet and let her have free rein in the kitchen.  She has a number of cookbooks, but her favorite is by Mollie Katzen and is called “Honest Pretzels.” Over break she’s made muffins, real pretzels, pizza with a homemade crust, macaroni and cheese( from scratch), pumpkin bread, pumpkin pies, chocolate chip cookies, omelets, and french toast.  She’s been able to manage all the cooking and baking without any supervision and is even beginning to clean up a bit afterwards. Woo hoo.

Her brother, twelve-year-old A, has had a constant stream of play dates and a tendency to park in front of anything electronic. Today he started melting my votive candles and sculpting with warm wax and I let him do it, just because it was an improvement over having him veg out on the sofa. He’s done some reading along the way, noodled around in the garage, and shot airsoft guns with his buddies. We took the kids swimming one afternoon and E also took them to see Enchanted.

While E spent most of his holiday break getting ready for our move, he also indulged in watching a string of the type of violent, historical movies that I never watch: 300, Apocalypto, We Were All Soldiers, Letters from Iwo Jima, the Passion of the Christ, and others.

I watched From Here to Eternity (old version), The Girl in the Café, and The Shipping News. All three were really good.

From Here to Eternity stars Robert Mitchum, Montgomery Clift, Frank Sinatra, Deborah Kerr, and Donna Reed. It follows the love affairs and careers of two soldiers in Hawaii during WWII. The story line was well developed, the acting was well done (except when the characters were drunk and it was oh-so-exaggerated), and the female leads played surprisingly strong and independent women.

The Girl in the Café was an HBO movie starring British actor Bill Nighy as an overworked high-level government administrator who is losing hope on ever being able to make a difference in the world through the political process. He’s buried his feelings and ambitions and turned into a bureaucratic drone—until he meets the girl in the café. The movie is a bit like Lost in Translation and is set during the G8 conference where world leaders are being challenged to address the effect of poverty in Africa.

The Shipping News is based on a critically acclaimed book that I haven’t read. It starred Kevin Spacey, Julianne Moore, Cate Blanchett, and Judi Dench. It tells the story of a man (Kevin Spacey) who has been drowning in nothingness his whole life, pushed down by his abusive father. He’s sucked into an even sadder situation by a mesmerizing woman named Petal, played with skill by Cate Blanchett. Judi Dench’s character appears on the scene after a family tragedy and reluctantly takes charge. She convinces the main character to move to Newfoundland and explore the family’s ancestral land while starting a new life. The past and present continually collide in ways that are disturbing and mystical, and yet ultimately, this is a hopeful movie about the pangs that come with rebirth.

Did you watch any good movies over break?

January 4, 2008

My get-up-and-go got up and went

All weekend I’ve slipped between episodes of normal energy and no energy at all. I’ve flopped on the sofa, in the recliners, on the floor in the sun, and in my bed. I cleaned off my desk because I could do that without moving. I tried to wash all the illness out of our sheets and pillowcases and aired out our rooms and put the comforters outside in the sun. I folded laundry. I curled up with Petey. I tried to work on art projects but couldn’t gain any momentum, so I browsed some books on painting techniques instead. I took a lot of naps.

I drank cup after cup of tea. I ate chili that I made Friday before I got sick. I didn’t have the energy or the ingredients for real chicken soup, so we had ramen noodles, the ugly stepchild of comfort foods. We ate all the Chex mix we’d set aside for A’s camping trip. The weather was absolutely flawless, and it was painful to think we were all stuck inside (except for E, who even with a fever and cough, went outside and trimmed all the hedges. The man has more stamina than most professional athletes.)

E and I watched two movies over the weekend. The Holiday, with Kate Winslet, Cameron Diaz, Jude Law, and Jack Black, was predictable but a lot of fun. I think Kate Winslet steals the show as Iris, and Jack Black upstages Jude Law as a romantic lead. Cameron Diaz is a great comedic actress, and she’s so gorgeous, that even if she couldn’t act, you’d still want to watch her.

The second movie we watched was Freedom Writers starring Hillary Swank as an idealistic teacher who takes on a classroom of inner city kids in LA and inspires them to improve their lives against all odds. Once again, not an original story (“Stand and Deliver,” “Mr. Holland’s Opus,” “Music of the Heart,” “Dead Poet’s Society”) but one we never get tired of hearing or watching.

Oscar winner Hillary Swank, who was the film’s executive producer as well as its star, gives a carefully nuanced performance that shows Erin Gulwell’s transformation from idealistic but ineffective educator to a skilled and innovative teacher who seeks to reach her students where they are and cultivate their potential. It was believable and inspiring and made me think long and hard about race issues in the U.S. It is definitely worth two hours of your time and would be a wonderful movie for your favorite teens to see.

This afternoon (between naps) I unpacked winter clothes and put away the last of the summer ones. As I folded stacks of t-shirts and Capri pants into Rubbermaids, I realized that the next time I unpacked those clothes, I’d be living in Virginia. It shocked me because no matter how much I talk about the move, it still doesn’t seem real to me. I will be shaking the wrinkles out of those tops and bottoms as the azaleas and dogwoods bloom and we all adjust to a new life. Wow.

In the attic I came across a box of pants I’d set aside because my expat fat had made them impossible to wear. Since the kids went back to school, I’ve been exercising daily and watching what I eat, and I’m very proud to say that about 75 percent of the pants in that box fit me again. I’ve lost close to 15 pounds and my French black velvet, butt-flattering, leg-lengthening jeans fit me again. This is a major victory. I have a long way to go in regaining my fitness, but fitting into my best clothes has motivated me to continue moving forward to reclaim my pre-Belgium body. (My cardiologist in Richmond will be so proud of me.)

So all told, despite a sore throat, bouts of coughing, and episodes of malaise, I had a good weekend. How about you?

October 14, 2007

Kinky boots, ruby slippers, and the magic of shoes

Last night E and I watched the movie Kinky Boots, which is based on the true story of a traditional shoe factory in England that was on the brink of closing until it ventured into an unexpected niche market—making stiletto heels for drag queens.

The movie was very well done, mixing comedy and drama as the makers of wingtip oxford for respectable men move to creating quality red patent leather and snakeskin high-heels for men who enjoy dressing as flamboyant women.

To paraphrase the factory manager, “We’ve always made a certain type of shoe for a variety of men. Now we’ll be making a wide variety of shoes for a certain type of man”

In the process of telling the factory manager’s story, the film engages the viewer in thoughts on entrepreneurship, loyalty, family expectations, and the slippery slope of gender and sex roles.

The movie brought back memories of my years selling shoes in the Midwest, and my brief encounters with a transvestite who came in every so often looking for women’s pumps in Size 12.

We never had anything even close to his size, a message the store manager always delivered in a brisk authoritative voice that conveyed, “Don’t even ask, and please get the hell out of my store.”

It wasn’t until I saw Kinky Boots that I considered the drag queen’s point of view and how much courage it took to enter a family shoe store in Oklahoma and ask about getting a pair of red pumps in Size 12.

Then again, I’m not so sure the drag queen fully recognized he was pushing boundaries because he didn’t seem to be fully clued into social norms in general. I think he had some larger mental health problems and cross-dressing was probably the least of his issues. He was a fixture in the downtown area, sometimes appearing in drag, sometimes dressed as a man, always seemingly lost in his own world in a way that was disconcerting though not menacing.

During my years as a Shoe Selling Grrrl, I belonged to the Episcopal Church that was downtown and served on the altar guild. On certain Saturday nights, I went to the church to set up for the next day’s service. My role included polishing the silver chalice and paten, washing and ironing the altar linen, and shining the brass candlesticks, collection plates, vases, and other items used on the altar. It took an hour or two to get everything done, and I tried to do it all late on Saturday afternoons to avoid being alone in the church complex at night. It was a little creepy after dark.

I often chastised myself for being anxious about being alone in the church at night. What exactly was I afraid of? What made me shiver when the lights were out? Was it instinct? Intuition? Or a foreshadowing of what lay ahead?

Because one Saturday night someone did end up entering and robbing the church, but they didn’t take the valuable silver altar pieces or search for money. Instead they stole several chausables, the vestments the priest dons before celebrating Holy Eucharist. Those are the ones that resemble big ponchos and usually feature gold thread embroidery and other lavish embellishments.

Who would steal chausables? The very thought made my skin crawl. Was someone using them in punked out religious rites? Were there Satan worshippers in our small town in the Bible Belt? Did someone think this was funny?

Nope. As it turns out it was nothing that sinister, someone just thought they were the ultimate fashion accessories. You can guess who. Yes, the chausables were stolen by our friendly neighborhood cross-dresser. He was busted when the police spotted him pedaling his bike downtown wearing the richly decorated red chausable that was normally worn on the feast of Pentecost.

Apparently, the guy who was willing to risk censure by entering a family shoe store looking for sexy red pumps was unafraid to slip into a church closet on a Saturday night and check out the rich colors and high quality fabric used on the chausables. I’m willing to bet the appliquéd flame motif on the red one made him swoon with thoughts of being the first one sporting this hot new style on the street.

I never saw him dressed in his  "Sunday best,"  but I liked to visualize him in the chausable, pedaling nonchalantly around town.

Did its generous folds flapping in the wind behind him make him feel powerful, like Superman, the alien do-gooder who wore a red cape? Or maybe he felt powerful like a priest issuing absolution? Like those who harbor the power to love and to forgive? Like those who could have special ordered a pair of red shoes for a customer without asking questions or issuing judgements?

Power for good and evil is always in our grasp. 

And red shoes, be they patent leather boots or ruby slippers, have a power all their own, a magical way of transporting us into better versions of ourselves. Maybe the right pair of red shoes would have taken the town "weirdo" to a better place, a light-filled joyful space where he never had to worry about what others thought of him, a place where he could kick up his heels and enjoy his shoes in peace.  

January 30, 2007

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved.

Walk the Line

I'm dragging today because I stayed up late watching the Johnny Cash bio pic, Walk the Line. I have one Johnny Cash CD in my collection, American IV, and I have Rosanne Cash's Black Cadillac, a musical expresson of the grieving process, written and recorded after her father's death.

I've always loved Johnny Cash's voice, which is bitter, dark, and comforting, like a cup of black coffee. The movie explores his youth, his early years as a musician, his success, his drug use and his on-again-off-again courtship of the woman who would be his wife for more than 35 years, June Carter.

Joaquin Phoenix's intensity and brooding persona is pitch perfect for this role of a man who fell into the abyss and wrestled with demons more than once in his life and emerged chastened and faithful to the God and the woman who stood by him. Reese Witherspoon is ideal as a woman trying to emerge from the shadow of her famous singing family (The Carters) and find her own voice. Unlucky in love and mindful of the Christian values she was raised to embrace, she struggles with her attraction to Cash and her romantic history.

This film was well done, well acted, and the music and vocals, provided by the actors themselves, was remarkable. The movie re-creates an exciting era in music. Who knew that Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis toured with Johnny Cash early on?

The movie's downfall is that it essentially tells the same story we saw in Ray: poor Southern boy loses a sibling as a child, feels responsible, wrestles with depression, becomes famous, falls into heavy drug use, and recovers to launch a comeback and continue with a remarkably long and varied career.

This film of redemption, healing,  second chances, and creating music fueled by heartache is worth seeing, it's just not fresh or memorable.

November 1, 2006

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com

In Cold Blood

I’ve never read Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood, a compelling work of non-fiction that changed the nature of the genre and of journalism forever. Last night, I watched the movie Capote, which explores how the book that changed American literature also changed its author's life.

Capote is a disturbing film to watch. It follows Capote’s path from the first moment he reads of the mass murder of an entire family in a remote corner of Kansas to the day he witnesses the execution of the killers at the gallows at Lansing, Kansas.

It’s a story of a writer obsessed with a story, so absorbed by it and by its characters that he loses his soul in the process of telling it.  The movie doesn’t focus on the horror of the murders, but on Capote’s relationship with Perry Smith, one of the killers. In the beginning, Capote is willing to do anything to get inside the head and the life of the killer, and then once there he is stunned by what he finds and by the realization that he can’t separate this reality from his own.

Capote shows up in Kansas right after the murders with his research assistant and childhood friend Harper Lee in tow. He plans to do a story for The New Yorker on the murder. At this point in his career, he is already a famous writer and Hollywood celebrity who loves holding court in the literary and social scene, being the center of attention at a party, telling the best stories, dropping names, and using his homosexuality for effect.

Stepping into Kansas, he finds an audience that doesn’t immediately succumb to his charms and persona. He must gain people’s trust to gain the information he needs for his story. Sometimes he lets Harper (on the verge of publishing To Kill a Mockingbird) take the lead, other times he worms into the good graces of the wives of the men he needs to access. Later he uses those connections to glean inside information. Initially  he is fascinated by how the killings affect the town.

The more he pursues the subject, the more the story burrows deeper and deeper into his imagination. By the time the suspects are arrested in Las Vegas and brought back to Kansas, he knows he won’t be writing a mere article, he’ll be writing a book. When he locks eyes with Perry Smith and speaks to him for the first time in his jail cell, he begins a journey that will end with both men witnessing the other’s deaths--one will die figuratively while the other will be executed.

In the beginning Capote’s interest in getting to know Perry is entirely self-serving. He has a journalist’s passion for getting a scoop  and doesn’t hesitate to curry favor and trust with the hardened killer to get what he needs. It’s uncomfortable to witness the self-centered acts of kindness Capote uses to establish a connection with Perry, to see him masquerade as a friend when really he’s only feeding his own appetite for exclusive information and for fame.

There’s a growing sense he’s crossed a line morally and ethically as he compromises truth to get to the truth of the story. But just as the viewer begins to squirm under Capote’s false pretenses, Capote’s motivations shift. His interest in the prisoner becomes more genuine, their connection more real and substantial. As Perry opens up, we see that he is using Capote every bit as much as Capote is using him, and each is falling under the other’s spell.

What makes the film riveting is that the balance of power and friendship is constantly shifting between the two men, the nature of their relationship twisting and turning like a hanged man dangling at the end of a rope. They grapple with all that divides and unites their psyches and their lives. They’re torn between wanting to help each other and wanting to resist the other’s influence. They are both master manipulators pulling each other’s strings while trying to escape the snare of complex emotions that is generated through their exchanges.

At one point Capote’s life long friend, Harper Lee, questions the intensity of the relationship and asks Capote if he has fallen in love with Perry.

He replies, “It’s as if he and I were raised in the same house, and one day he went out the back door, and I went out the front door.”

The film is compelling, the acting stunning, the journey dark as Capote is consumed by his own talent, his fiery imagination, and the demons Perry unleashes in his soul. A haunting movie in every sense of the word.

October 30, 2006

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com

Top Ten Romantic Songs

Last week I posted on my top ten favorite sexy songs. This week, I thought I’d list my favorite romantic songs. You know the ones that make you want to dance in happiness, do a little twirl, get all gushy.

This has been a far harder list to come up with than the sexy songs; maybe I’m not a romantic Grrrl. A lot of love songs just make me want to slap some sense into the singer and tell them to get a grip, for God’s sake. Sigh. I’m not a woman who is easily swept away by sentimental ballads, but hey I’m not impervious. Here are my romantic songs

Moondance by Van Morrison—This song sets the standard for romance for me. The jazzy tempo and the vivid fall imagery always take me away to a terrace under starry skies.

True Companion by Marc Cohn—Heartfelt and earnest, this is an over-the-top proposal, completely romantic. My favorite part is how he sings of growing old together, “When the years have done irreparable harm/I still see us walking slowly arm in arm”

You Bring Me Joy by Anita Baker—Anita Baker has such a unique voice and when she croons “You bring me joy…,” it gets right to the heart of a good relationship.

Thunder Road by Bruce Springsteen—This won’t seem like a romantic song to most people, but it’s a song of second chances. When Springsteen sings, “So you’re scared and you’re thinking that maybe we’re not that young anymore/Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night/ You ain’t a beauty but hey you’re all right/And that’s all right with me” this middle-aged non-beauty is ready to jump in the car and grab that “one last chance to make it real.”

Cinnamon Girl by Neil Young—“A dreamer of pictures, I run through the night, you see us together, chasing the moonlight, my Cinnamon Girl.” Wish that were me.

Something in the Way She Moves by James Taylor---Sweet baby James. Smooth, soft, and casual, love is like a great pair of jeans. “I feel fine anytime she’s around me…”

Has Anyone Ever Written Anything for You by Stevie Nicks—A song I used to put on repeat and get lost in. Evocative. There’s nothing more meaningful to me than the idea of someone giving me a piece of themselves and their art. “Has anyone ever written anything for you?” So different from writing to someone. I’ve written for very few people. “Poet—priest of nothing.”

Beginning by Chicago—Chicago was a great band, and this song takes me back to a good time in my life. Love the contrast of laughter and silence this song addresses, because “mostly I’m silent.”

Groovy Kind of Love by Phil Collins—What a stupid, insipid song—why do I like this? Don’t know. Just do.

Soul Provider by Michael Bolton—I still remember the first time I heard Michael Bolton sing, “How Am I Supposed to Live Without You.” It hit a bit too close to home. I bought the CD, and discovered I loved the title track, “Soul Provider,” best. I liked the idea of someone feeding my soul, and I also loved the wordplay of soul provider vs. sole provider.

October 19, 2006

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com

"I'm bringing sexy back..."

I can’t explain why I love the song SexyBack by Justin Timberlake because, quite frankly, it violates all the norms that usually govern my taste in music. I tend to like classic rock and roll and adult alternative music with a splash of blues, light jazz, and country thrown in. I don’t do pop music, dance music, R & B, or hiphop—and yet SexyBack always makes me want to shake my moneymaker (apologies to the Black Crows).

What can I say, sometimes I surprise myself. I even like that falsetto he sings in—go figure.

Anyway, SexyBack got me thinking about songs I find sexy. I’m not talking romantic, stars-in-my-eyes sort of songs, I’m talking sexy—the type of song that resonates on a primal level.

In no particular order, here a few of my favorite sexy songs for your Friday:

1. Father Figure by George Michael. This pervy little wonder strikes a chord. When George croons, “If you’ll be the desert, I’ll be the sea. If you ever, hunger, hunger for me, whatever you ask for, that’s what I’ll be,” I’m there.

2. I’m on Fire by Bruce Springsteen. This isn’t pervy like Father Figure, but it’s vaguely menacing. Springsteen captures the frightening power of lust. “Sometimes it’s like someone took a knife, baby, edgy and dull, and cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my skull.” Yeah.

3. Closer to You by Dennis Quaid. Yes, THAT Dennis Quaid. This song is from the The Big Easy soundtrack and Dennis does it justice. Languid and hot like a Louisiana day.

4. Hurts So Good by John Mellencamp. Oh yeah, this is the one that probably led to the catchphrase of my early 20s, “Hurt me, hurt me.” Mellencamp’s 2003 CD “Trouble No More” features a cut called “Stones in My Passway” that is clever and sexy. I’m glad he hasn’t quit smoking—because it hurts his voice so good.

5. Addicted to Love by Robert Palmer. This is a classic. "You can't eat, you can't sleep, there's no doubt, you're in deep."

6. Boys of Summer by Don Henley. “I can see you/Your brown skin shining in the sun/ I see you walking real slow with your Wayfarers on, baby” Love the guitar solo, love the imagery of summer fading, and by God, this made me want to get a set of RayBans.

7. Strong Enough by Sheryl Crow, performed by the Dixie Chicks. “Lie to me/I promise, I’ll believe/Lie to me/but please don’t leave.”

8. Give Me the Keys by Huey Lewis and the News. Flirty and playful and loaded with word play.

9. Cowgirl in the Sand by Neil Young. It’s over ten minutes long and includes amazing guitar work. You can get lost in this song, and a lot can happen in ten minutes. 

10. Night Moves by Bob Seger. A nostalgic remembrance of coming of age and first love.  "Working on mysteries without any clues..."

Looking at my list, I realize most of these songs were released YEARS ago. So maybe the appeal of Justin Timberlake’s song for me is that at the ripe old age of 44, I need someone commited to “bringing sexy back.”

What’s your favorite sexy song?

October 13, 2006

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com

The Gilmore Girls--Season I

I’ve never been into TV and my television viewing is limited to occasionally popping in a DVD after the kids go to bed at night. After reading a lot of online buzz about The Gilmore Girls, I bought a used copy of the first season to watch. Last night, after months of catching an episode here and there, I finally finished watching the first season.

For those not in the know, the sitcom revolves around the lives of Lorelei and Rory Gilmore, a mother and daughter duo who are often mistaken for sisters. Lorelei, the only child of wealthy, old-money parents, scandalized her family and social circle when she became pregnant and gave birth to Rory at the tender age of 16. Years later, despite her success as a single mother, the past often comes back to kick her in the ass.

I’ve found The Gilmore Girls to be an enjoyable and original show but one I can’t quite relate to. It’s not quite a drama, not quite a comedy, and it operates in an alternate world. The story is set in Stars Hollow, a quirky community peopled by predictably eccentric characters. Amid all the neurotic borderline nutcases stands Rory, the 16-year-old Harvard-bound supergirl who is so wise, responsible, and kind that she’s a freak in her own right--in a good kind of way.

Lorelei, her fast-talking, miniskirt wearing, coffee-addicted mother, is like a 7^th-grader on speed. Impulsive, loud, and, at the age of 32, still caught in an adolescent rebellion against her conservative parents. Her rapid-fire delivery of rambling monologues is supposed to be funny, but I only find it mildly entertaining. Mostly it’s distracting, as if the scriptwriters are showing off how clever they can be. It makes Lorelei an annoying character.

The dynamic between Rory and Lorelei is like that of girlfriends. They share clothes, paint each other’s toenails, watch movies together, take turns making the coffee, eat nothing but junkfood, and have all the same friends. They even attend town meetings together. It’s a fun concept, but I admit I can’t always suspend my disbelief and swing with the breezy relationship. Of course, that explains why Stars Hollow is presented as a fantasy of a small town—Lorelei and Rory couldn’t exist anywhere else.

My favorite character is Emily Gilmore, Lorelei’s mother. She’s a bitch with a heart of gold. A typical upper-crust New England matron, she’s still confused and scandalized by Lorelei’s behavior, her abandonment of the life she was born to lead, the opportunities she squandered, and most of all, her refusal to be part of her parents’ lives until the cost of Rory’s education demanded she borrow money from them. Emily can be harsh and manipulative in her relationship with Lorelei. In contrast to Lorelei’s relationship with Rory, Emily and Lorelei’s exchanges are tense and peppered with sighs and eye-rolling. But above all, Emily loves Lorelei and while wounded by her rejection, she  is taking small steps to better understand and accept her daughter and her choices.

I like watching how conflicted Emily is as she explores Lorelei's different values and standards, and the realistic way she often takes one step forward and then two steps back in her relationship with her daughter and granddaughter. The actress playing Emily manages to convey the characters rigidity, strength, and vulnerability.

The first few episodes were uneven and a bit over the top. It’s been interesting to see the characters settle into their roles and the writers respond with scripts and storylines that play off the chemistry among the cast. The show gets better as it goes along, which means that even though I didn’t LOVE it, I’ll be watching Season 2 on DVD when I need to unwind before bedtime.

September 6, 2006

Brokeback Mountain

Yesterday I finally watched the film Brokeback Mountain. I wasn’t sure what to expect after all the hype, gossip, critical reviews, and Oscar night drama. Would it live up to its reputation? Over and over again I’d read this was not a “gay cowboy movie” but a  love story. And while I didn’t know the plot in advance, I fully expected to shed a few tears as it progressed.

As I watched the movie on a gray day with rain pouring off the roof, I was surprisingly unmoved. The relationship with Jack and Ennis didn’t seem to unfold as much as it exploded. Even knowing what was coming, I didn’t see it coming. Was that intentional on the actors’ and director’s part? Was it supposed to convey how these forbidden feelings were suppressed and denied by the characters until they couldn’t be contained?

Probably. And while the understated performances were magnified by the contrast of the grand sweep of the Western scenery, I had a hard time capturing the essence of the relationship between Jack and Ennis. Maybe that's because they didn't understand their relationship either. Why did they love each other? What was the basis of their attraction? What bound them to one another?

The scenes where they scuffled, in fun or in anger, were brilliant, illustrating their inner struggles and the way they were masculine in every sense of the word. Heath Ledger did an incredible job of conveying a man in a man’s world grappling with the social expectations that imprison him. His facial expressions, his body language, his restraint say so much more than his dialogue. Jake Gyllenhaal does a great job of conveying Jack’s’s unease with his place in society and yet his refusal to give up his dreams of happiness. Neither actor nor director falls into cliches depicting gay men.

And yet despite these fine-tuned performances, I didn’t cry as these men two-stepped through unfulfilling marriages and strained family relationships. I didn’t even cry when Ennis called Jack’s wife to get the details of his death or during the heart rending scene with Jack’s parents.  His father’s wary, hardened face makes his disappointment and latent disgust with Jack palpable, and yet there are hints of wistfulness as he recalls Jack’s talk of plans to help run the ranch with a buddy. His mother’s resignation and ambivalent acceptance of who her son was is there in her compassion for Ennis. And they all sit in a spartan house on a windswept plain and privately consider how all traces of  happiness have been scoured from their lives.

Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana wrote the screenplay for Brokeback. McMurtry is one of my favorite writers—his writing is spare, subtle, and restrained, yet his novels are loaded with emotion. His books not only earn coveted space on my shelves, but his stories nest in my subconscious.

I’m not surprised then that while I didn’t cry during Brokeback, I can’t stop thinking about Ennis and Jack and the world they inhabited. Like their attraction to each other, the story just won’t leave me be, haunting me long after the screen faded to black and the TV clicked off.  

August 22, 2006