Some years ago, I started a tradition of watching “Children of Men” every November. I’m not even sure why. The dystopian landscape is one that might manifest ten minutes from now — the scariest kind. There’s a compelling story and an unbelievable cast, including one of my all time favorites — Clive Owen.
The first time I saw the film, the idea of immigrants in cages seemed a little far fetched. But now? One characters states: “Illegal immigrants — our government hunts them down like cockroaches.” To Americans, this no longer sounds like the stuff of fantasy.
The distribution of assets is spectacularly unfair, with most people living in drab utilitarian spaces or in squalor. And then there is the fact that no baby has been born in 18 years.
In 2007, a year after the movie was made, Roger Ebert reviewed the film and penned these lines, more relevant now than they were 12 years ago:
Often I fear it will all come to this, that the rule of law and the rights of men will be destroyed by sectarian mischief and nationalistic recklessness. Are we living in the last good times?
In rare and spooky synchronicity, The Boston Globe today featured an article about declining fertility rates.
After a respectable pause, it’ll be on to my holiday favorites, prime among them “The Last Holiday,” with Queen Latifah.
Do you have any movie traditions this time of year?
The Irish goodbye is a thing, you know. I’d done it, more or less, my entire life before finding that out.
What is the Irish goodbye? It’s the swift, some would say ungracious, nonverbal exit from company — often well before a social event’s natural end point.
My husband sometimes accommodates me. Last night, all I had to say was, “time to go” and in a matter of minutes, we were donning our coats and inhaling the bracing December air.
When you consider how much we would’ve had to interrupt our hosts in order to say ‘goodnight’ and ‘thank you’ — it’s not THAT ungracious a maneuver. I sent a beautiful picture and note by email this morning, along with a dinner invite for January. I’m not a monster!
You have to understand — this internal, possibly genetically-imparted pressure has absolutely nothing to do with the society involved. Last night’s party, for instance, was filled with folks I don’t get to see much anymore. People I really, really like. Interesting people.
Plus, there was a long dining table sagging with a glorious array of home-cooked dishes. You don’t always get that at gatherings.
No, it’s my disposition — some weird mix of ADD, impatience, and thorough-going introversion (recall the touchstones of an introvert — energized by solitude, drained by company).
And, just so you know, sometimes I accommodate my husband, generally when visiting his family. My in-law’s style of goodbye is the polar opposite of the Irish goodbye. Picture long, drawn out exchanges, often on the driveway with coats on and motors running. Future plans are outlined, routes home discussed. Entire conversations rise and fall, then rise and fall again. There are hugs and more hugs. I married into such a kind and considerate family!
Where am I during that second round of hugs, you ask? Often sitting in the car preparing to deal with my husband’s abject failure to abide by a generous, pre-arranged limit.
Fortunately, there is humor and self-acceptance in all of this. That’s the really, really good news.