Watching the Towers Burn
May. 21st, 2006 02:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikistitchSo, Saturday evening, while the rest of America filed into movie theaters seeking to be menaced by an albino monk, Mr. Tiki dragged us to see United 93.
Yes, "dragged us." Though the movie, in our humble opinion, stands as an undoubted work of art, perhaps the best we've seen all year, Tiki is a notoriously bad flyer-on-planes. Mr. Tiki has finger-shaped bruises on his forearm to prove it. After reading the initial reviews, we put off viewing until at least after our recent flights to Europe.
We're now trying to summarize our primary reaction. It was not, as we'd predicted, a raw fear, or even an intense sadness, though those emotions did bubble to the surface.
"Criminal negligence" was the phrase that kept popping to mind. At several points during the film, a character will gruffly (not loudly, but gruffly--there are no histrionics in this movie, nor are there big stars--Jack Bauer is not coming to shoot an evil-doer in the kneecap and save all) demand, "Where is the president?"
We know, as the characters do not, President George Walker Bush is two doors down the hall in the Multiplex, appearing in Michael Moore's documentary. He is not, as urban legend would have it, reading "The Pet Goat." He is, rather, staring blankly into space for seven full, plump, excruciating minutes.
Yes, "dragged us." Though the movie, in our humble opinion, stands as an undoubted work of art, perhaps the best we've seen all year, Tiki is a notoriously bad flyer-on-planes. Mr. Tiki has finger-shaped bruises on his forearm to prove it. After reading the initial reviews, we put off viewing until at least after our recent flights to Europe.
We're now trying to summarize our primary reaction. It was not, as we'd predicted, a raw fear, or even an intense sadness, though those emotions did bubble to the surface.
"Criminal negligence" was the phrase that kept popping to mind. At several points during the film, a character will gruffly (not loudly, but gruffly--there are no histrionics in this movie, nor are there big stars--Jack Bauer is not coming to shoot an evil-doer in the kneecap and save all) demand, "Where is the president?"
We know, as the characters do not, President George Walker Bush is two doors down the hall in the Multiplex, appearing in Michael Moore's documentary. He is not, as urban legend would have it, reading "The Pet Goat." He is, rather, staring blankly into space for seven full, plump, excruciating minutes.
