WLFBoulder

I can't decide if this is an in-joke or a put-on.

If it's an in-joke I'm definitely not In. I watched 30 minutes of it and turned to the "Making of..." feature hoping to find some meaning, any meaning. That didn't really help either.

Listening to the straight-faced telling story of the famous cinematographer from Argentina who was brought in to teach the director of photography how to use a home-movie camera smeared with vaseline--I thought, my God, it's *all* a put-on.

So I read all the literati telling me what a profound work of art it is, I guess they know what they're talking about. Me? I guess I'm too unsophisticated, and all I can see is there's a good chance the king ain't wearing clothes.

The whole thing has a smell of hostility to it. Like who's laughing at who here?

Perhaps more than many films, this one is not for everyone. For some folks the idea of slowing down, reflecting and allowing things to happen in their own time is a good description of their personal hell. For others an approach like this speaks to some deep part of themselves they know exists, some part they long for contact with.

I suppose it's a function of where I am in my own life these days, but I count myself in the camp of the latter group. I found the meditative pace of this film almost hypnotic, gently guiding me into some realm almost mythological. This is indeed a journey story, a rich portrayal of the distance many of us must travel if we are to come full circle at the end of our days.

Much as been written of Mr Farnsworth's presentation of Alvin Straight, though I'm not sure there are words to express the exquisite balance of bemused sadness and wise innocence he conjured for us. Knowing now that he was indeed coming to terms with his own mortality as he sat on that tractor seat makes me wish I had had the opportunity to spend time with him before his departure. I hope he had a small glimmer of the satisfaction and truth he had brought to so many people, not just for "acting" but for sharing his absolute humanity with such brutal honesty.

Given the realities of production economics, I'm not sure full credit has been given Mr Lynch for the courage he showed in allowing the story to develop so slowly. An outsider to film production, I nonetheless understand there are few areas of modern life where the expression "time is money" is so accurately descriptive. Going deep into our hearts is not an adventure that can be rushed, and to his credit Mr Lynch seems to have understood that he was not simply telling a story--he was inviting his viewers to spend some time with their own mortality. No simple task, that.

If you'd like to experience the power of film to take introduce you to some precious part of yourself, you could do worse than spending a couple of hours with The Straight Story. And then giving yourself some time for the next little while simply listening to its echoes in the small hours of the night.

This is a movie about the kind of people most of us spend our lives trying to avoid: drunks, whores and cripples of every description. The setting is seamy, mostly taking place in an old neighborhood bar; no ferns here, no clever reparte between beautiful people. The is a story of loneliness and not a little darkness, leavened with gentle, often self-effacing humor.

The miracle here is the degree to which you wind up truly caring about what happens to these folks. The action in the movie is simple. The people are not, and it is a remarkable feat of storytelling to bring this ensemble to such rich, moving life.

This is truly a sleeper, Steinbeckian in its evocation of the common humanity in us all.