Not that it was bad - it, in fact, was actually pretty good - but it wasn't what I wanted. When you want a certain type of ice cream nothing else will suffice, it will always be flawed next to the imaginary pleasures you would have gotten from say Dublin Mudslide, and it was similar tonight, I was aware that this was a Woody Allen movie, but it wasn't a comedy, wasn't what normally qualifies as an Allen movie.
It was way better than his prior attempt at serious drama, Interiors, had a couple light moments, a soundtrack, and probably the real reason that I enjoyed it so much is that it stars one of my favorite actresses, Gena Rowlands. But I realized that so much of the reason that I love her may be because she stars in Cassavetes' films, which are themselves perfect in such a singular way, because here, her character, an uptight woman seemed so ill fitting to Rowlands.
During the film, I sat in the chaise lounge in our living room, with my right leg resting on my left knee, stroking gently the sole of my raised foot, thought about loneliness after Rowlands' character proclaimed hers, thought of mine and became more aware of the hand, my own, against my foot, thought to how long it was that someone had touched my body gently in any sort of caress, and thought to how long it was before that remembered encounter. So few and so long ago.
Say everything you want to say. It's the only thing you can do. Say anything just to let them know you love them.
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