(Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt was for an elegy with some kind of unorthodox focus. I don’t know about unusual, but a film about loss seemed a good fit for a mournful elegy.)

The boy who died filled a hole, you know,
Before he lost his chance to grow,
Before the accident defined
And left the hole behind.

Where he’d have been, there’s no one there
To fill his kindergarten chair,
To chase the dog or yet annoy
His parents with a toy.

Where he’d have been, his parents frame
And argue who is more to blame.
The empty frame can comfort bring
Or aggravate the sting.

His loss unravels and unrolls
A family into separate souls,
Two wondering if they can fill
The name of parent still.

While life goes on, the hole will stay,
Though cloaked in time till Judgment Day.
To build from it is not a sin,
The hole where he’d have been.
__________________

MPAA rating: PG-13

Based on a play by David Lindsay-Abaire, Rabbit Hole is a deeply affecting portrait of realistic familial grief, much in the vein of Ordinary People and Manchester By the Sea, though closer in appeal to the former. It’s not so much about tragedy as how people cope with it and tackles the subject in an intimate way that draws phenomenal performances from its main actors, most notably Aaron Eckhart and Oscar nominee Nicole Kidman as parents grieving the death of their little boy.

Months after their son Danny is killed by a car, Becca (Kidman) and Howie Corbett (Eckhart) attend group therapy sessions and go about life as normal, but life is not the same. With every reminder of Danny, the two react in opposite ways: Howie values every smudge and picture made by his son, while Becca wants to give away his clothes and even sell the house to escape his ever-present memory. Likewise, they seek out comfort in different people, whether a sympathetic acquaintance who understands grief (Sandra Oh) or the very person responsible for Danny’s death (Miles Teller). Through it all, the Corbetts’ everyday life is like a scab covering the wound, quick to be torn off at any mention of Danny, which leads to some uncomfortable and heart-rending emotional fireworks. Nicole Kidman received the lion’s share of the praise, including an Oscar nomination, but I thought Eckhart was just as good, matching the high quality of all the performances.

Rabbit Hole brings home how elusive comfort can be in the wake of an unspeakable grief and how it may be found in unexpected places, perhaps a comic book, a dog, or a conversation that once provoked resentment. I would have liked Becca to see the value in the religious solace she denounces at first, but her mother Nat (Dianne Wiest) mentions the support of her church, and it’s something of an irony that Becca does find some comfort in a different perception of the supernatural. Eckhart and Kidman deliver nuance and pain in their award-worthy roles and, with the rest of the excellent cast, evoke so many facets of the grieving process, making Rabbit Hole a heartbreaking watch that nevertheless doesn’t lose sight of the light at the end of the tunnel.

Best line: (Becca) “Does it ever go away?”
(Nat) “No, I don’t think it does. Not for me, it hasn’t – has gone on for eleven years. But it changes, though.”
(Becca) “How?”
(Nat) “I don’t know… the weight of it, I guess. At some point, it becomes bearable. It turns into something that you can crawl out from under and… carry around like a brick in your pocket. And you… you even forget it, for a while. But then you reach in for whatever reason, and – there it is. Oh, right, that. Which could be awful – not all the time. It’s kinda… not that you like it exactly, but it’s what you’ve got instead of your son. So, you carry it around. And uh… it doesn’t go away. Which is…”
(Becca) “Which is what?”
(Nat) “Fine, actually.”

Rank: List-Worthy (tied with Ordinary People)

© 2017 S.G. Liput
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(Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt was to write a poem based on memories, so in honor of a film focusing on Alzheimer’s disease, I wrote it in three progressively uncertain parts.)

I remember the house where I grew,
The hibiscus bush out to the right of the yard,
The oak tree so eager its leaves to discard,
The carpet a cringe-worthy blue.
I remember it clearly in every regard,
And I miss the old house that I knew.
_____

I remember the house where I spent
My childhood, garnished with roses, I think,
Or was it hibiscus, a picturesque pink?
The maple tree I did resent.
I remember the rug was as purple as ink,
And that Mom wasn’t very content.
_____

I remember a house with a tree.
A bush was nearby, with some flowers that grew.
I now want to say that I gathered a few;
And something inside was ugly.
Whose home that house was, I wish that I knew,
But failing is my memory.
______________________

MPAA rating: PG-13

Based on a 2007 novel, Still Alice is one of those laudable films that give an actor or actress the perfect outlet to prove their worthiness of an Oscar, and in this case, Julianne Moore delivered. As successful linguistics professor Alice Howland, Moore takes an unexpected Alzheimer’s diagnosis from its distressing onset to its heartbreaking end. She has the support of her husband (Alec Baldwin) and grown children (Kate Bosworth, Hunter Parrish, and Kristen Stewart), but it’s a personal struggle that neither they nor anyone without Alzheimer’s can fully understand.

I don’t personally have any experience with Alzheimer’s (though some old age dementia) in my family, but watching the details of Alice’s everyday life provided further appreciation for her efforts to maintain her memory. She tries to keep her extensive vocabulary intact, but its loss is gradual and relentless. When she can’t remember how to navigate her own house or recognize someone she just met, both she and her family cannot help but grieve, even in a pained glance, at the decline of an accomplished woman, slipping away a day or a minute at a time. Despite an inspiring speech that triumphs despite her waning ability, by the end, her power over nothing is harrowingly pitiful.

Kristen Stewart as Alice’s free-spirited actress daughter shows she has stronger acting chops than Twilight and Snow White might indicate, but this is Moore’s film from start to finish. There is no doubt whatsoever why she won the Best Actress Academy Award and swept many similar awards. Even if it upheld the theory at the time that acting an illness was a sure way to an Oscar, Still Alice makes Alzheimer’s personal, in all its familial compassion and sorrow. It’s not a film I’d watch often, but it’s one in which everyone can find empathy.

Best line: (Alice, speaking to an Alzheimer’s conference) “And please do not think that I am suffering. I am not suffering. I am struggling. Struggling to be part of things, to stay connected to whom I was once. So, ‘live in the moment’ I tell myself. It’s really all I can do, live in the moment.”

Rank: List Runner-Up

© 2016 S. G. Liput

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