I watched “Oldboy” for the very first time and now I can’t breathe.
There’s no way that this will ever be one of my favorite movies. Yes, it was beautifully made, and there’s some really amazing cinematic moments here–like when Oh Dae-su picks up the hammer at the very beginning of that epic hallway scene–but when the Twist (and yes, the capital T is needed) happens, I had to hold back a scream in my throat.
Some friends came back to the apartment right as the film was ending. I opened the door and let them in, and now they’re talking about how much C.S. Lewis is a terrible man (and really, despite his contributions to literature, he really is) (“They have a boner for their own power”) and they’re snacking on McDonald’s and I’m trying not to cry.
What a beautiful film. What a fucked up film. What a beautiful, fucked up, film.
I haven’t felt this empty, this hollow, since I watched another one of those soulsucking films, “Notes on a Scandal.”
Which is a road I don’t want to walk upon. Which is a road upon which I don’t want to walk. Grammar. It’s important.
Persephone. This will make sense in the morning.
At first, I didn’t understand why Mi-do was in the film. I wrote off her character and her character’s actions as yet another instance of random female characters injected into an otherwise all-male storyline, but I shouldn’t have doubted this film, I shouldn’t have doubted Park Chan-wook, the man who’s directing Mia Wasikowska and Nicole Kidman in the upcoming “Stoker,” which looks so frighteningly good as well. Family intrigue? Creepy, creepy undertones? Check, aaaaand check.
I’m trying to write but my head is spinning and my fingers are now moving like puppets over the keyboard as I try to understand what I’ve just watched and block out the conversation that’s happening around me and I’m focusing on the clacks clacks clacks and I feel the heat of my sweatshirt and my blanket wrapped around my body and there’s a low light in the apartment coming from a lamp in the living room and the kitchen and the bathroom in the background and I’m breathing through my mouth and now my nose and my throat tightens and contracts with the sound of a depressed and repressed voice
and now my roommate Lisa (hi Lisa) is sitting next to me on the couch, watching and listening to me type, and Lisa, when you read this, I’m not ignoring you now because I don’t want to talk to you, but because I can’t talk to you, or anyone else.
I don’t know.
I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know
Lisa and I went to Santa Monica today (yesterday?) (not MLK Jr. Day) (happy birthday, Dr. King) and while we were there, we saw a bunch of dogs greet each other, and I mentioned how I wish people were like dogs in the way in which they greeted each other for the first time. She told me to write about it. So. I am.
I’m going to bed now.
(Image: Rinse by Lissy Elle)