One of those movies better appreciated in hindsight than in the moment. You know how it will end, it takes too great a pleasure in setting you up for it, but it doesn't offer any catharsis, you get no sense of poignancy about it, it is as insurpassingly beautiful in places as it is altogether cruel. But it is a film of art and art is often pain. In this it exceeds. If you have ever loved and been made to feel utter pain over it, this film will pierce you. Perhaps there is some catharsis in knowing some of us never get any answers or closure because those answers and closure are not what we really want. Better to remember the moment as it was captured in your mind's eye and let the heavens take our aspirations where they may.
Honestly, though, I'm not entirely sure the film's convulated carpet pull wouldn't fall apart if it were given serious consideration. Doesn't quite change the emotions you feel as a result, but another reason I'm not altogether pleased with it in spite of its beauty. It's all a little too romantic for its own good. When it's all said and done, I think I would've preferred a simpler May-December romance and left it at that. I was quite taken at times with those aspects of it. The rest can go jump a cliff. Hitchcock was better at this sort of thing because he made you feel the characters deserved it, instead of making you feel guilty for identifying with any of them. If you want a real film about obsession, pop in Vertigo. I think this one got bored with its romance midway through and turned itself into a con.
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