I recall thinking the last time: what a load of baloney! Meryl Streep‘s character is dying and the film revisits her middle years when she had a brief encounter with Clint Eastwood, who plays a freelance photographer, while her hubby is away. This encounter appears to be the defining incident of her whole romantic life.
Her husband seems to be a perfectly serviceable man, loving and a good father. Eastwood (Robert Kincaid, is his character’s name) is a handsome, fly-by-night, emotionally unavailable man (EUM) who floats through life but is portrayed as the gifted lover, the great love, the one who got away. He’s many women’s fantasy and for men, he encapsulates the man who could satisfy this woman in a way her husband can not. The one who fills up the woman’s emptiness (no euphemism intended!)
Call me a killjoy. I know this film plays into fantasies about the mysterious stranger who satisfies one’s romantic and sexual longings. And I am not saying that such things don’t happen or that these feelings are easy to deny. But, really, the plot – it’s a load of tosh, isn’t it?
When you have been through separation and divorce and know, in retrospect, what makes a good marriage (and how you both got it wrong) you snort at this delusional film matter! I’ve no time for Robert Kincaid. Nice, loyal, respectful and, most importantly, someone who treats you like you’re the best since bread, sliced or otherwise, is much more of a turn on!
Bit of a rant there. But it amused me…