I went to the movies on Saturday night to see August: Osage County.
Strangely enough, Yvonne wanted to see this movie despite not having enjoyed the play when we saw it in New York. The appeal of Meryl Streep and Julia Roberts, along with a host of other famous names, piqued my interest as well, so a quick visit to Fandango and we had secured our seats since it was only playing in a few local theaters.
We grabbed a quick bite at a neighborhood Cuban place and after a brief visit to culinary heaven via the best Frijoles Colorados I’ve tasted in a while, off to our Cineplex we went.
Stomachs full and energies refreshed, we waited in the line that would lead us into the auditorium to embark on our journey to Oklahoma where for the next two plus hours we would peer into the lives of a dysfunctional family.
At the end of the movie, we were both exhausted and singing the praises of our mothers.
I knew that Violet Weston, the matriarch in A:OC is a character of reprehensible morals, but I was not prepared for what adorned my screen. Meryl Streep, as the protagonist mother, inserts just enough nsand dispenses of all thto personify one of the most attractive monsters to grace the silver screen in years. Cruel and mean-spirited she is an actor’s dream, but a feeling person’s sojourn into happiness she is not. Meanwhile, Julia Roberts plays tired and angry throughout, no traces of a pretty woman anywhere, looking physically and emotionally spent after the trajectory of the film.
I enjoyed the performances and applauded what they brought to the film. There wasn’t one bad note in the bunch, but the music they made was like banging on the left side keys of the piano repeatedly: dark, ominous and lacking any melody. After a while, that grates on your nerves as does this story, as does this film.
I don’t know if as a writer I would want to be known for this piece, because the words, situations and circumstances seem to emanate from a very dark place. I tend to believe that even my darkest places have night lights, so it does not seem possible for me to reach this low.
Still, I waited – I waited for the one term of endearment that would be shared between characters, between scenes, between words. It would come and then it would be overshadowed by the appearance of another monstrosity.
So leaving the theater I was glad it was January, I was in Broward County and all my monsters were under the bed, just where they belong.