The other night a friend came over to sleep-over in my airconditioned apartment and in exchange he brought a movie and some beer. I had never seen Talk to Her, the Almodovar film, and despite not being this director’s biggest fan I thought, well it might be time to give the old Spaniard another try.
About 10 minutes in, I realized I’d made a huge mistake. The pacing of the film was so mind-numbingly slow that even watching Tarkovsky’s Solaris would have seemed zippy in comparrison. And doubly annoying was the fact that my film watching partner was so reverent about the experience of watching this–his favorite film–that I didn’t even feel like I could make a comment. Although he apparently felt it was within the bounds of film watching religiosity to sing along to every song. (Dude, I get it, you’re real fuckin smart and you speak Spanish and shit. You don’t have to make a running point of it.) To be fair, he was equally annoyed when I paused the film during a dramatic moment to get a string cheese.
A film about two unconscious women being cared for by creepy men has the ring of something I might like, but all I could think about while watching was how extremely clean and cheerful the Spanish convalescent home seemed. I grew up visiting my grandmother in an extended care home in Encino, California that was so repugnant that I would spend the whole visit breathing into her lotion bottle to cut the stench. Also, unlike the women featured in Talk to Her, no one ever sensually massaged my grandmother’s midsection and inner thighs.
In retrospect, I probably should have chosen something animated and fantastical for such a ripe summer evening. It’s difficult enough to concentrate on watching films in the summer. There’s so much happening outside that being stuck on a couch, even in the middle of the night, makes me feel antsy. But it may also be true that Almodovar and I just weren’t meant to be. I’m just not romantic enough, I guess.
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