trust

    Something's happened to knock things off-center, and I'm not quite certain how to get it back right again.

    First things first. It was a pretty good weekend. Cold with intermittent clouds of irritation, but mostly just good. Saturday was shopping (mostly 'window') and dinner (Sorrento's for steak; Nick had ribs). Sunday, we continued our odd movie combination habit. After hauling the 180-volume set of books that he recently acquired out of my car and into Nick's house, we had lunch (at the diner, natch) and then settled in to watch my all-time favorite musical, Singin' in the Rain. Given the recent success of An American in Paris, I thought it would go over OK; that would be an understatement. My favorite dance number from Singin' in the Rain is "Moses", a duet between Gene Kelly and Donald O'Connor. The syncopation is what makes it truly spectacular, but it also has an element of silliness and joy that makes it irresistible to me. Nick couldn't get enough of O'Connor's showcase, "Make 'em Laugh." We watched both of those scenes several times.

    After that film was over, we bundled up against the weather--though it had "warmed" to almost 30 degrees above zero, nearly 40 degrees higher than the previous day--and went to the theater to see Hannibal Rising. Nick is a fan of horror films; I am not. However, I am not particularly easily repulsed, and I am a fan of going to the movies with Nick, so....

    I've seen Manhunter--and I loved it. I've seen The Silence of the Lambs, and while I didn't particularly 'enjoy' it, I thought that it was very well-made and definitely worth the drawbacks of the experience. (I haven't seen Red Dragon or Hannibal.) This film, though, was amazing. It was something that I've never seen before. A true conundrum. It was fascinating, during what I would call "Act I," which was a literal retelling of Hannibal Lector's childhood as it bears on his future as, well, Hannibal Lector. It was also hideously disgusting, by far the most repulsive film that I have ever had the misfortune to see (and mentally re-see, over and over, since then). The profusely grisly scenes were pocked through the second two-thirds of the film. The general feeling that I got from that last part, though, was ungodly terrible boredom. This movie lasted for four hours. OK, not really--it was "only" 117 minutes, according to imdb--but it certainly seemed like it. It dragged on until I thought I would slip out of my seat, sleeping or just bored stiff. Every now and then, something stomach-turning and excruciating would occur. Between those moments, I could have been doing my nails.

    Coincidence: one of the very fine actors from The Virgin Queen (he played the allegedly-traitorous Duke of Norfolk) has a notable role in Hannibal Rising. His name is Kevin McKidd, and he is breathtaking in both of the roles in which I saw him recently. If you do for some odd reason decide to see this movie, do watch for him.

    Home on Sunday night, after the movies were over and Nick had returned to his other life. I was left with the recurring shadows of horror playing in my mind. I hadn't read the Chicago Tribune, so I decided to scan it before heading to bed.

    It didn't help.

    I'm not certain that this will make much sense unless you actually know me. Given how much I've written about movies lately, I'm not really "a movie person." I don't spend a big chunk of my time watching; I'm much more prone to reading a book, or writing, or doing any of a dozen other things. But there are a few movies that I absolutely love, for one reason or another, and that I know I will keep watching over and over for as long as I am able. These films changed me, and they continue to have an effect upon me even after all of the times that I have seen them.

    One of those over-and-over movies is Trust. It's an independent film from the days when "independent" really meant something. Intense, disturbing, loving, hopeful, and funny, Trust is, in movie form, a lot like what I would like to write, if I could write for a living. (Not in context, but in character.)

    The female lead in that film was played by Adrienne Shelly.

    She died in November, 2006.

    I found out yesterday. Last night. I read it in the newspaper.

    She was 40 years old. She was married, and had a child, born in 2003. The circumstances of her death are unreal, horrible, unimaginable.

    This is a woman who so fascinated me. She enchanted me. This character, in Trust, Maria, was not real. But this actress, she was something. When I would read her name in reviews or on DVD boxes, I would feel an odd sort of secret pride, believing that my faith in Trust—and my absolutely boundless energy in forcing that movie on anyone who would listen—may have played some part in encouraging her success. I was thrilled when she played a charming role in an episode of my second-favorite Kyle Chandler series, Early Edition. In short, I had, without realizing it, become a real fan.

    And she's died.

    She was in one of the films that I saw a couple of weeks ago, Factotum. It was a very small role, and I recall both my happiness upon seeing her name in the opening credits and my disappointment when her character exited without the opportunity to be explored more fully. (Such was the case with that entire movie, though.) Why didn't I realize, then? I linked to her name in the review post, but obviously didn't read her imdb profile that day.

    I've spent today in a sort of fog. What is the meaning, the purpose, of this sort of admiration? Obviously, she will never know the happiness that her work has brought to me. In all likelihood, though, she would not have known, had this terrible fate not befallen her. Will this change the way I behave--make me more ready with my praise? Will it make me more cautious, careful, fearful? Will it make me ever more grateful for my family and friends, my chosen family, who are, after all, those to whom the gratitude ought to be shown?

    In Trust, Maria wants to know why Matthew is willing to do what he's doing for her. "Not because you love me or anything like that?"

    Matthew, who desperately wants to be aloof from the pain of human interaction, can only respond, "I respect and admire you."

    Maria, being Maria, cannot help but push: "Is that love?"

   He sighs almost imperceptibly and says, "No, that's respect and admiration."

    But in the end, it is clear that respect, admiration, and trust equal love. Maria and Matthew find it, despite the pregnancy, the heart attack, and the grenade. I found it, despite the failed marriage, the million and one other mistakes, and handling this one as if it is a "thing" to "handle." Trust made it, if not easier to find, at least easier to see once it was there.

    I hope that she'd found it, too.