Reviews

Sophia Loren's character is living in Fascist Italy with many kids, no shortage of chores, and a beastly, unfaithful husband who uses her house dress as a hand towel. He is played by a dubbed John Vernon because of the Canadian money behind the picture, I suppose. He is something of a distraction in my opinion. Mussolini's Fascism strengthens her sense of self and belonging, but without the freedom to express alternative views, should she have any, she is like a caged myna bird that begins to notice the bars around it. That is not to say that she lives oblivious to the possibility of subversion, but familial, societal, and governmental pressures bear down on her significantly. Adherence is more the path of least resistance than an exercise of volition.

Marcello Mastroianni's character is a persecuted subversive on the verge of suicide. Whether her knock at the door prevents it is an open question. He is debonair, amiable, and dashingly Italian in his presumptuousness. But, feeling out of place in an insane world, he is guarded before unveiling himself and eventually releases his frustrations upon her. She retreats behind her familiar wall of intolerance, but her short and refreshingly escapist acquaintance with him had broadened her mind irrevocably and convincingly. Though her jerk husband would not be so easily disillusioned and she is moved romantically and sexually, this brilliant film convincingly elucidates how fascistic thinking is generally manufactured. Interestingly, they have sex despite him identifying as homosexual. Something he undertook unreservedly but experienced differently. As someone who strictly defines my own heterosexuality, I consider him bisexual.

Though it can be too fanciful to be intended, I like reading about symbolism in films because little of it occurs to me when watching them. This film is exceptionally rich in its symbolism. Hitler's historic visit to Rome has apparently cleared their apartment complex of everyone but them and a hag caretaker, whose radio blares the approving coverage that counterpoints their solidarity across political lines. The element of their chance encounter appeals to me greatly. Both direly in need of it, they are in the end the better for it. Easier said for him than her, however, as he is lead away with the benefit of insight, she is back to her burdensome existence without the crutch of blind loyalty. She nevertheless reads the book he gave her with the benefit of knowing herself to be a much improved and genuinely appreciated human being.

She is a formidable and very well-spoken character with an inferiority complex for lacking the education attained by her husband's mistress. The book is a compliment to her and warmly received. Her husband demonstrates no ability to ascertain or appreciate intelligence in another human being. This worthwhile aspect of the story would have gone over better with me if he were less of an unwashed ruffian and more of a bombastic martinet.

I had the great pleasure of rewatching One Way Passage recently. It is a film about love, life, and death with a remarkable ethereal charm. Dan (William Powell) is of the criminal element and under threat of the hangman's noose, but easily forgiven for "croaking the dirtiest heel that ever lived." Joan (Kay Francis) is a darling of a socialite with an apparent heart condition that has her days numbered. Together on a month-long crossing from Hong Kong to San Francisco via Honolulu, "the world and time seem somewhere else," she remarks. It blossoms into a sacrificial love of mutual devotion. To help her he forgoes a chance to save his neck, and she taunts death all the while by disobeying her doctor's orders to remain at rest.

I love the Golden Age of Hollywood, but not so much for the comedy. One Way Passage is exceptionally funny thanks to Aline MacMahon as Betty, a con artist who masquerades as a countess and Frank McHugh as the thief, Skippy. They are also two of the best friends any film character ever had. I have not seen a better example of honor among thieves. The subplot between Betty and Warren Hymer's sympathetic and honest cop, Steve, is very much welcomed.

New Year's Eve in Agua Caliente is a most happy occasion as the film ends. Their hope of an afterlife came true. A beautiful idea, however much I struggle to fathom it.

I have come around to appreciating why Sacramento-native Greta Gerwig considers Lady Bird a "love letter" to her city. It's the best thing I can say for it. The movie is bookended very satisfactorily with an opening scene that sets just the right tone and the protagonist's change of heart regarding her hometown of Sacramento. The in-between parts are where I found the protagonist disappointingly uninteresting and the messaging ham-handed as it related to her. It has been heralded as a highly intelligent coming-of-age story, but I can't help but disagree.

Saoirse Ronan plays Christine "Lady Bird" McPherson by making believe that she isn't absolutely gorgeous. She also insists on going to an East Coast liberal arts school despite apparently being divested of such aptitudes. Although she understandably yearns to escape her Central Valley life and does undergo a character arc that I cannot in good conscience mock, her eyebrow-raising indulgences breathe a little life into a story mired by her uninspiring, self-centered mentality. Had she been more principled and dignified, vowing to reimburse her parents the cost of raising her could have been more than erratic foolishness, however ill-advised it would still have been. The same goes for her bail out from the car (my favorite scene, nonetheless). Christine's eccentricities and the mother-daughter relationship strain credulity a little, but not too much. She is for me a character to be endured, not enjoyed, and ditto for her mother, and while I am at it, her adopted brother.

Christine's friendship with the comparatively charming Julie has a ring of contrivance given the former's character flaws. The conceited Jenna is authentically disagreeable. Christine's even-keeled father is a refreshing opposite to her melodramatic, despairing mother. The first boyfriend (played by Lucas Hedges of the brilliant Manchester by the Sea) is indeed tolerable compared to boyfriend number two, a moron with a lot of screen time. The third guy only had to be an upfront atheist for our rebellious Catholic Schoolgirl (if he had to be anything). She tells him, "People go by the names their parents give them, but they don't believe in God." A banal remark, if you ask me. And she makes my point for me by later dropping "Lady Bird" for her parents' answering machine.

It surely can be argued that a movie shouldn't be too aware of when it takes place, but the predictable indications--Iraq War coverage (watched by teenagers, no less) and talk of cell phones being ubiquitous in the near future--are easily forgiven and on some level wanted. I liked the crying game and the football coach turned theater director scene. The parent-child open house outing is something I can relate to from my own childhood.

Writing this review elevated my opinion of Greta Gerwig's Lady Bird somewhat. That is to say, my mind is less boggled by the critical acclaim. It ultimately deals with interesting aspects of life, just not as I would like it to, and the lovable deviant vibe simply hasn't come over me.

As far as I am concerned, people make the High Noon comparison too assertively. I too appreciate that film very much, but this film gives more nuance to the underlying message. The townspeople of Firecreek do not uniformly stand idly by while outlaw scum run roughshod over them. Aside from the simpleton stable boy, whose nobility transcends primordial self-interest, the townspeople naturally look to their sheriff for law and order while making their own feelings known. In High Noon, people suggest that Gary Cooper's Marshal Kane skip town, while others actually want a violent outlaw to return because the guy's a lot of laughs. Both scenarios are conceivable, but Firecreek has more to say about settling for less than desired and going along to get along.

Calvin Clements' first-rate western dialogue cannot go unmentioned. I go so far as to say that it is in a class of its own. Interestingly, Jack Elam is in both films, but is especially memorable in Firecreek. Though I consider James Stewart's performance to be one of his best, I remember reading somewhere that he was disappointed in Firecreek. I realize that some people can't help but wince or grin at the perceived heavy-handedness of Stewart's Sheriff Cobb going berserk in the end. This relates to another distinction between the two films: In High Noon the marshal is the target, so he can't very well just ride off into the sunset with Grace Kelly; whereas in Firecreek the outlaws would rather the sheriff remain a hat-in-hand bystander.

Firecreek is for me the more interesting film.

After a lively opening in Mexico City with adroit camera work, we are treated to a splendid main title sequence. Thinking back to Adele's titular "Skyfall" and how it psyched me up, I found Sam Smith's "Writing's on the Wall" a letdown that foreshadowed further disappointment. (To my surprise—now three weeks later—I enjoyed "Writing's on the Wall" as performed by Jeremy Kushnier and the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra; so, though not a favorite, I have come to appreciate it.)

Two problems are apparent early on: Firstly, we are used to seeing Daniel Craig's 007 bruised and bleeding after dynamic fight scenes, not looking like he had just wrapped up an Omega watch commercial (why undersell the danger?); secondly, 007's sexual dalliances are at first obligatorily forced and ultimately in the realm of self-parody. This worked for Sean Connery and Roger Moore, but is out of place in the Craig era.

It takes more than a gathering of talented people and an astronomical budget to make a great James Bond film. By comparison with the sophistication of Casino Royale and Skyfall, Spectre's screenplay is shallow, to put it charitably. The cast, supported by Christoph Waltz, Dave Bautista, Léa Seydoux, and Monica Bellucci, is indeed a plus, but Waltz is underused. This is a multilingual production, and it implies that Waltz's Oberhauser speaks German and Italian, but we get only English from him. If there was ever a time after Inglourious Basterds to capitalize on his linguistic abilities, this was it. Whether to avoid what may have been construed as a rehashing of Quentin Tarantino's work or an unwillingness to rewrite a character not originally intended for Waltz, it is a failure beyond description. As for Oberhauser, he is a Blofeldesque character complete with a white Persian cat. But to later proclaim that he is Blofeld is a meaningless wink and nod to the earlier films, because he appears to go by Oberhauser to all intents and purposes. Waltz himself did not get it.

Near the end, Bond finds himself in a compromising position at the hands of Oberhauser, who subjects him to a particular method of torture as described before he is to kill 007 outright. But lo and behold, we are asked to accept that 007's devotion to Seydoux's Madeleine Swann runs so deep that his evil genius arch-nemesis, the "author" of all his pain, does not really have his methods of torture nailed down after all. I think not. The filmmakers could have deviated from the formula without insulting anyone's intelligence. The watch Q provided should have gone off before Oberhauser's little experiment. Here again—and more to the point—why undersell the danger faced by our dashing hero? Furthermore, 007 and Swann arrive at Oberhauser's place in the desert as guests, not covertly, as would be the norm. This plan of theirs not surprisingly had its drawbacks.

With a budget estimated as high as $350 million, I would have appreciated location photography in Tokyo since they based a scene there, even if just an aerial shot and some Japanese influence on the proceedings. I realize that the scene only involved peripheral characters and was meant to move the plot forward, but nevertheless, it was too generic. Having lived there, Tokyo is in many ways my favorite city, so I found myself wanting some sense of the place.

Though better than Quantum of Solace, in my opinion, this the 24th official James Bond film is on the whole a disappointment. This is so for specific reasons stated and more generally the ludicrously far-fetched plot, whereby 007 had vanquished many megalomaniacal villains without realizing his adoptive and presumed dead brother was lurking in the shadows. What is more, the final act hinges too much on the supposed depth of emotion between 007 and Swann, a relationship rather ham-handedly developed for all the mileage they try to get out of it.

In despite of this being a predominantly negative review, the action sequences are solid, especially the fight on the train with Bautista's Hinx (arguably the best in the series), there are many beautiful location shots, and I was not at all bored during the 148 minute runtime.

Spectre is likely to be Daniel Craig's final turn as James Bond. They all have to move on eventually. He sure is a tough act to follow. I, however, remain more optimistic than apprehensive about the future of this franchise.

I was strongly advised against seeing this movie by someone who considers it sheer stupidity from A to Z. Fortunately, I went anyway. It is easily my favorite natural disaster movie, an enjoyable subgenre that hitherto has not wowed me.

I don't much mind that San Andreas stretches scientific realism until it yelps for mercy, because to my way of thinking it comes down to intelligent, likable characters, an engaging, well-paced storyline, a good helping of humor (not that it takes much for The Rock and Paul Giamatti to amuse me), a ton of perilous action with solid special effects, and nice sprinklings of pathos amid the mayhem. The Rock and Carla Gugino as separated parents achieve a tenderness that is not a joke, however much it may be lost on those who maintain a self-satisfied, preconceived idea of San Andreas as a mindless, popcorn movie.

Though there were no real surprises, it was not for me a by-the-numbers experience. San Andreas has a Spielbergian sense of wholesome integrity and more depth than it is given credit for. Many would write off Ioan Gruffudd's megarich character as a two-dimensional cad, but not only is his behavior entirely conceivable under the circumstances, Carla Gugino's character is all the more fleshed out and sympathetic by association. If all hell didn't break loose, he would have remained good boyfriend material by any reasonable analysis. That aspect interests me.

I found it very entertaining overall.

I am hard pressed to fault Blue Is the Warmest Color. My appreciation of it crescendoed in a way that had me question the essentiality of the entire 45 minutes or so before Adèle and Emma meet. I nonetheless have come to appreciate it as the deliberate development of the Adèle character and her circumstances. The walk-by and subsequent autoerotic scene are integral to the story.

I also questioned whether the protracted graphic sexual content was of an artistically neutral value, given how lust can otherwise be implied. Not that filmmakers should necessarily make a habit of it, but with so little left to the imagination, the right emotional responses were more readily evoked in other scenes. Ultimately, the film's unfailing naturalism demanded such sexual representations. It would not have made sense for the director to have been shy about the kind of film he was making.

Adèle is an understandably flawed character. Her sex life is dictated more by convenience than principle. This selfishness is at variance with her love for Emma and desire to benefit others as a teacher. Emma is more mature in age and mind. She is a truly likable character. Loving her so deeply is a credit to Adèle. One of the more thought provoking relationships ever put to the screen; I would need a horrendous case of dementia to forget it.

What a breakup scene! Not surprisingly the most difficult; it best exemplifies this tour de force of acting for the two leads. I could rack my brains to no end and not recall to mind a more effective scene. Adèle receives her comeuppance with heartrending disbelief and desperation. Emma's Sartrean resolution can be debated on its merits.

The taboo nature of their relationship is something of an eye-opener. France only legalized same-sex marriage in 2013, despite nationwide opposition. So, the depiction of homophobia is all too true, evidently. There is something wrong in the world we live in when a realistic treatment of the subject would have been essentially the same decades earlier.

This glowing review of mine had me call into question my own rating. It had been a 9/10, mainly because the film by necessity (as I now understand) has an unusually slow build up. I had intended for this to be a mixed review, but the more I meditate on Blue Is the Warmest Color, the more I appreciate it. The perceived negatives fell flat under the light of scrutiny. The supporting characters are well established, with Samir, the Arabic speaking actor as the standout. The music is good throughout. The anti-Hollywood, though somewhat open-ended ending is just right.

All in all, a brilliant, intense, and wonderfully unique film.

There is a moment in Before Sunset where Ethan Hawke's Jesse tells Julie Delpy's Celine that he wrote a fictional version of their story where they rendezvous in Vienna and end up not liking each other. It appealed to her sense of realism. Indeed, she later touched on it again. Walking out of the theater I knew Before Midnight more or less answered that vital question.

Here we add nine freaking years to the previous 13 or so hours of their time together. So, understandably, Jesse and Celine are not as we left them. Bearing the increasingly heavy chains of life's complications, they still love to bat around ideas and make each other laugh. More importantly, they really want to understand each other and be understood.

For Jesse, seeing little of his son Hank (now 13 and played by Seamus Davey-Fitzpatrick) is the unacceptable cost of being with Celine, mishandling his separation, and having a vindictive, dejected ex-wife. Desperately wanting to be consistently present in Hank's life, their latest farewell is the final straw. He and Celine had been in regular contact with Hank for two years in New York City, but Celine's very complicated pregnancy with twins (Ella and Nina, now 7-years-old and played by Jennifer and Charlotte Prior respectively) made it imperative that she be close to her mother in Paris.

Jesse obviously did the right thing by staying with Celine and he knows it, yet he shoulders the guilt of an absentee father and externalizes it. Celine, though not exactly an innocent bystander, is subjected to unfair manipulation. Generally quite reasonable as to the father/son question, she is, by my reading, unconsciously passive-aggressive about it. The unarguable fact is that a move to Chicago (where Hank presently lives with his mother) would amount to babysitting every other weekend for want of joint custody. As for Hank, he gets on well with Jesse, but there is a definite sense of detachment. He doesn't even look over his shoulder as he turns the corner out of sight at the airport.

Jesse is otherwise very good: he is leading the life of a successful writer (three books out and a fourth in the works) with Celine--the unquestionable love of his life--as his wife and a good mother to their twin daughters who are healthy (and of course dressed differently). He just somehow figured on Hank living with them. By thinking through his crisis aloud, Celine (no longer a closed book) says in a half-kidding way that it is the beginning of the end for them.

It is nice to see them interacting socially for the first time in the marvelous, detail-rich dinner scene. Everyone contributes more or less evenly as the conversation ranges from artificial intelligence to gender differences to various interesting perspectives on love and romance. The trio of Linklater, Hawke and Delpy pour themselves into making the absolute most of these naturalistic films, and it shines through palpably. It is interesting to learn that Hawke and Delpy wrote a lot of each other's dialogue. This happens to be the funniest of the three films, in my opinion. Great music again, too!

Celine, feeling disconnected from Jesse as to her own stresses, wants out of their planned night together, but irrevocable arrangements had been made on their behalf. Walking together as we had come to know them, their natural chemistry is evident in short order. Celine acknowledges this while remarking in a downplayed way that she doesn't feel the connection at times. Jesse responds in jest, unaware of it as a crisis that will soon converge with his own. They enter their hotel room feeling good about the whole shebang. Then Hank calls again and things gradually spiral downward into a serious case of love on the rocks for these well-meaning veritable soulmates in the southern Peloponnese of Greece.

Celine is more complicated than Jesse--who is not about to leave her and the girls for Hank in Chicago--and even less inclined to contentment in life. The professionally-minded activist with little in the way of a maternal instinct has been saddled with the aforementioned twins and is essentially trying to balance domestic mundanities with her environmental work in the ineffectual non-profit sector. She no longer finds time for music, her creative outlet. By contrast, Jesse to her mind takes his easygoing novelist life to the highfaluting hilt. Though wonderfully good-natured to be sure, envy continues to be a problem of hers. She respects his intelligence, but slights his work, and being the inspiration for his first two intimate novels does not sit well with her at all. She also feels every day of her 41 years and even accuses him of infidelity, as if only to clear the air.

The backfiring of a wind turbine project has her set on working for the government again despite doubts. Not knowing she considers it a "dream job" of sorts, Jesse rouses Celine's feminist spirit by suggesting she perhaps forgo the position for something in Chicago. Celine quotes someone in earnest: "Women explore for eternity in the vast garden of sacrifice." It took Jesse's out and out mockery of her innermost feminism to later warrant her saying she doesn't think she loves him anymore.

In the final scene we find Celine understandably despondent and Jesse appropriately self-reproachful. Employing a time travel fantasy reminiscent of that which convinced her to see Vienna with him 18 years before, he realizes his failure despite desirous efforts to understand her. By reconciling herself to him, Celine sees in his sincerity the very magic she spoke of in Vienna. It could not come full circle more wonderfully.

Their protracted relationship continues to be the very height of my cinematic experience, so it pleases me greatly to know that the door is being left wide open for a fourth film and hopefully more. Richard Linklater, Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke will know if it is right.

Rarely do I watch Before Sunrise and not Before Sunset immediately afterward. The former insists on the latter. A divine three hours indeed. The original writing team of Richard Linklater and Kim Krizan get the story credit, while Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke join Linklater for the screenplay credit. Way cool to have actors writing their own sublime dialogue. Funding difficulties forced a minimalism congruous with the naturalism. Done in real time with long continuous shots, there is not a hint of contrivance. I really cannot imagine an improvement of any significance on this superlative film.

Before Sunrise ended with Ethan Hawke's Jesse and Julie Delpy's Celine looking forward to their reunion six months later in Vienna. Jesse borrowed $2,000 from his dad to be there, while Celine had to attend her dearly beloved grandmother's funeral that same day. Talk about bad timing, but this was the very grandmother whom Celine visited that summer of '94 and, therefore, without whom they would never have met. Then again, we could say the same for Jesse's ex-girlfriend in Madrid. The absurd interplay of fate and chance intrigues and frustrates. They could have been in different cars on that train from Budapest.

The film and trilogy being quintessentially character-driven, Linklater's directorial touch is just right. He begins Before Sunset with a reverse-order montage that beautifully calls to mind that of the first film's ending. Jesse, by this time unhappily married with a 4-year-old son, is in a Parisian bookstore wrapping up a tour for his novel This Time, based on their brief encounter nine years previous. Never connecting with someone so deeply theretofore nor in the intervening nine years, the struggle to remain alive to his experience of their time together compelled him to immortalize that night by sharing with the world the significance of really meeting someone. More than that, he knew it was his best shot at seeing Celine again. Celine, who is working for an environmental organization called Green Cross and in a relationship with an often-away war photojournalist, smiles at a wonder-struck Jesse as he is finishing his talk. So much to say and so little time (just over an hour) before Jesse is to leave for the airport.

The years have naturally rendered them more worldly-wise this time around, as is reflected throughout their humorous, incisive dialogue, but having to revert back to a shared sense of hope and meaning is something of a paradox. There is truth to be found in the perceived naiveté of youth. Jesse, emotionally ravaged by their years apart, is torn between an undying love for Celine and the inertia of a loveless marriage, wherefrom his son Hank is the only saving grace. Celine by comparison is more of a closed book: harboring the guilt of missing their rendezvous, she had contentedly resigned herself to a life less delightful, but reading his novel awakened her to how hopelessly starved for meaning and excitement she has since been. Jadedly guarded, she keeps an emotional distance despite the undeniable sparks they again get one on one. How is married Jesse to help her after all?

There is a very touching moment on the tourist boat where Celine is at her loquacious best--real salt of the earth stuff--and Jesse, having relived their night together over and over to write his book, is simply compelled to address their preposterous misconnection as the clock ticks away. This leads into ever more personal territory as they exchange sorrowful revelations in a cathartic purge of pent-up grief. Bantering again, Celine hugs him strongly--their first embrace since going their separate ways nine years before--and though playing it cool, she seems to know her waltz (Julie Delpy's wonderful "A Waltz for a Night") is about to do the trick. The clock be damned, Jesse selects Nina Simone's "Just in Time" to which Celine respectfully impersonates the iconic singer.

Before Sunrise ended on a particularly sad note, so the uplifting nature of this subtly executed ending is all the more satisfying.

I discovered this film soon after its video release on a movie channel one early morning in my mid-teens. More of an action or comedy or action comedy type movie fan at that time, Before Sunrise planted the seeds of my incurable romanticism. My every viewing reaffirms a naturalistic charm that has not and will not wane. I do not go for naturalism invariably. For instance, John Cassavetes' A Woman Under the Influence. No thank you. Not my scene. But my what refreshing naturalism in this trilogy, even when to the point of awkwardness. A very big thanks to Richard Linklater for fleshing out this absolute gem of a film. Very wise of him too to co-write it with a woman, Kim Krizan. Though uncredited, it is worth noting that Delpy and Hawke each had a hand in rewriting this film with Linklater.

Knowing from my own experience how easy it is to meet people on trains, I marvel at the thought of how many real life variations there have been and will be of this story. By a most auspicious concatenation of circumstances, Ethan Hawke's Jesse and Julie Delpy's Celine find themselves sitting across from one another on a train from Budapest. They get to talking and detrain in Vienna after some clever convincing from gumptious Jesse. He is to fly back to the US in the morning, while she can spare the time before continuing on home to Paris.

They roam about the city together feeling as if in a mutual "dream world" removed from the ordinary flow of life, all the while engaged in a stream of consciousness dialogue that could lead one to construe them both as self-indulgent; however, that would be a fruitless interpretation. Voluble they may be, but they are sincerely striving for enlightenment individually and mutually. We are social creatures, and though they need not necessarily be romantic relationships, we only really know ourselves in relation to others. Before Sunrise is all about the exhilaration of really meeting and connecting with someone, an experience certainly heightened here by the sexual element. The listening booth scene strikes a deep chord with me in this regard: innocently stealing glances while playing Kath Bloom's "Come Here" (an excellent song choice), it is their first instance of sexual tension, and moreover, the body language is to be appreciated, as it will be throughout the trilogy.

As for the other characters, the part-time actors (played by Karl Bruckschwaiger and Tex Rubinowitz) amuse as they describe their play translated as "Bring Me the Horns of Wilmington's Cow." Fortunately given a miss. I like the inclusion of the palm reader (played by Erni Mangold) who imparts her own intrapersonal/interpersonal advice. I especially like the street poet (played by Dominik Castell) whose poem ("Delusion Angel" written by David Jewell) likewise concerns a world out of one's control and the value of a real connection with someone. Both interactions present a sardonic Jesse complemented by a more trustful Celine.

In the poignant final montage we look at now familiar locations minus the protagonists, and I for one get the sense of a strikingly indifferent universe. We have seen the "see you in six months" thing in Love Affair of 1939 and its 1957 remake An Affair to Remember (good films to my mind), but this trilogy makes a World Series winning grand slam home run of it. Too inexperienced to really grasp the rarity of their connection, they opt not to exchange contact information so as to avoid a fizzling out of the relationship. It begs for a sequel if ever a film did.

For all the convoluted brilliance of Before Sunset and Before Midnight, those films ultimately capture the spirit of this one. Celine summed up the essence of Before Sunrise and the trilogy with these lines bettered by nothing in cinema: "You know, I believe if there's any kind of God, it wouldn't be in any of us, not you or me, but just this little space in between. If there's any kind of magic in this world, it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it's almost impossible to succeed but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt."