Away From Her

"On your right is a man. He's heartbroken. Broken into a million pieces."

That line, muttered by an Alzheimer's patient, comes about halfway through "Away From Her," Sarah Polley's confident and effective first film. It refers to the film's protagonist, and it wants to refer to us, for "Away From Her" is a movie that's out to break our hearts.

I don't see how it can't, really. The subject matter - the loss of a spouse to Alzheimer's Disease - is inherently heartbreaking, so much so that I began to apply the "endangered child" rule to the film. The "endangered child" rule goes like this: since we're genetically programmed to respond to endangered children, we check for cheap manipulation by asking, "Would the situation affect us this much if no children were involved?" In this case, the question becomes, "Is the situation handled effectively and honestly? Am I watching art or exploitation?" I wrestled with this, and almost came down on the side of exploitation at the quoted line. Then, however, I observed Gordon Pinsent as the heartbroken man. His was a reserved, inward performance; not one easily read. And yes, his heart was breaking, breaking into a million pieces. And he broke mine, too.

Ararat

With ARARAT, Atom Egoyan applies his considerable skills to the Armenian Genocide, an issue that's clearly of profound importance to him. He weaves together multiple storylines and timelines (a technique that seemed revolutionary with his first film and now feels pedestrian) to generate dramatic tension while he builds a two-hour long testament to a war crime committed long ago and far away.

It's an artfully made film, and I cared for its characters, many of whom are longstanding members of Agoyan's repertory company. But here's the problem, articulated by Elias Koteas (he plays an actor who lands the role of Jevdet Bey, a major player in the genocide) in conversation with a young man of Armenian descent:

Koteas: Look, I was born here. So were you, right?
Young man: Yeah.
Koteas: This is a new country. So let's just drop the f^cking history
and get on with it.

The young man feels the pain of the genocide like it happened yesterday. He carries that pain like Serbs carry the pain of their defeat at the Field of Blackbirds in 1389, transmuting into a kind of impotent rage. In fact, most of the ethnically Armenian characters in the film carry that rage, and I can't help but think that that rage is precisely the kind of thing that keeps cultures locked in cycles of retribution.

How much better a place might the world be if we could just drop the f^cking history and get on with it?