Until the little girl whispers in David Wall's ear.
I was coming down with a cold last Saturday, and I didn't want to be bothered with anything other than streaming something to take my mind off my rapidly-filling sinuses.
On Prime Video, the ad for David Wall's indie film "Noelle" caught my attention because it didn't look anything like the 87 other Hallmark love-amongst-the-fake-snow wallows. My wife and I watched it, and we couldn't figure out if the movie was supposed to be in the Maritimes, Wales, or some alternate-reality state in our Union.
Noelle is a dry, somewhat humorous, and confusing joy. I sat there harumphing at the infuriating main characters' inability to seal the deal, to get me to buy totally into the story and suspend disbelief. Yet, I stuck with it, and as the story of a diocesan hatchet-man who is sent to close down a tiny-town parish church and finds out he really shouldn't be a priest unfolds, I began to appreciate the deeply-embraced Catholicism of the movie. The idea that a man can be a priest and despise the transactional humanity of his ministry is so foreign to me that I had to see how this movie, made for what appeared to be about a $143, resolved the large and small conflicts.
I wasn't sure if I could say I liked Noelle until the little girl whispered in the priest's ear. All of a sudden I had to grab a paper towel.
And it wasn't to mop up snot.
