Sometimes we turn our own everyday life into films. We struggle to force people and situations within filmic categories. We are enchanted by the Victorian player (playa) of Jane Eyre who had a mad wife hidden in the attic. We are tormented by the postcolonial hero who charms us with poems and stories of struggle. Ultimately, we are smitten with the obscure boy who convinces us that free love is the answer... for men of course, not for women. All in all our living cinematic loves tell us a story; most times we don’t believe it, but if we do, we launch a campaign against our brain, against our common sense, and against our friends. At that point we are ready to fight for the cause/story. Then we get tired because we had too much rum in the company of the wanna-be revolutionary.
The morning after is the time of confusion, the time of possibilities. It can be the end or the beginning. In the film “French film” Hugh Bonneville wonders why people are obsessed with the beginnings of their love stories. I can’t leave him because our beginning was magical. I heard that many times. I also heard: we must be together because our beginning was magical. Bonneville finds out that beginnings don’t make stories. What really makes a story is the consolidation of it. It is about choosing, taking a stand, and risking. It is about being brave. After numerous beginnings, Jane falls for Richard, but when she finds out about the other woman, she leaves and among the inhospitable nature she finds peace. If our lives were screenplays, the writer would always make us leave. Instead we stay, chasing the filmic.
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