14 September 2004
MOVIE: WE DON'T LIVE HERE ANYMORE (2004).
Two marriages succumb to adultery. If this film feels like a short story, it's no wonder: it was adapted from fiction by Andre Dubus. If the film feels like a couple short stories strung together, then that's because it was adapted from two of Dubus' short works. In fact, the whole movie, while elegantly crafted and perfectly acted, feels more like a dreamy series of emotional vignettes rather than a single story arc. Couples cheat, and in turn suspect each other of cheating. The guilty overcompensate by doting on their children, or buying special dinner lobsters for no particular occasion. This quiet, artful sort of domestic suspense carries the film well for the first 30 minutes, but never modulates to anything beyond a tedious hum for the rest of it.
I get the feeling that this might've read much better as a story, where it's easier to get away with placing gray little characters on stage as convenient expository vessels. We watch the tired old writer, the casual professor, the neglected wife, and the ex-free spirit; we have television documentary voiceovers, and all they signify, and an over-reliance on Tolstoy quotations. Again, it probably worked better on paper. I'd have to compare it with Raymond Carver's What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, just to be sure. But then again, maybe not: where Carver shot razor-thin lasers into the heart of adult relationships, Dubus' story ended with such a bizarre and contrived dishonesty that I suspected him of forgoing the truth for simple shock value—lead gilded with gold.
An idle life is never pure.
PHOTO DIARY.
 A couple weeks ago, I walked right past Nicole Kidman and Will Ferrell as they rehearsed lines in a patio next to my building. Turns out they're preparing to shoot a movie version of the ancient television comedy Bewitched. Film crews arrived yesterday to commandeer the parking lot of Book Soup. Best book store in LA, by the way.
 Kidman (in pink) briefly appeared for breakfast at the catering spread. Although judging from this awful snapshot, which I took without bothering to get up from my desk on the fourth floor, you'll just have to take my word for it.
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