I finally got to see Brokeback Mountain and I am glad that I did,
although I had been rather cautiously interested before venturing into the
movie theater. I am not sure that my
mixed feelings were really due to the movie itself, but were more brought on by
the whole issue of the disappointments that often arise from seeing movies made
from beloved books and my own mixed feelings about Annie Proulx.
I had seen The Shipping News and enjoyed it, which at the time
surprised me because I had been absolutely completely unable to get through the
book. I attempted to start it more than
once; each time I gave up before getting very far. Eventually the project was abandoned as
worthless. The problem here is that I loved the story by Annie Proulx.
Prouxl is an absolutely
masterful writer of short stories, and I view the art of writing short stories
as something completely different from writing novels. She is able to condense whole worlds,
scenes, or moments from life into a single line and imbue them with fullness
and life. To be able to write a short
story is to be a master of the microcosm, to be able to condense epics into
compact spaces without losing any of their meaning or resonance. In The Shipping News I thought Proulx was a
short story writer trying to write a novel and not particularly
succeeding. My judgment may be too harsh. Truthfully, I have never attempted to read any other novel she has
written, although I have considered trying That Old Ace in the Hole. But I seek out and treasure her
short stories.
Back to the movie: It
was certainly an excellent movie and it surprised me on several fronts. It was pretty faithful to the story. I think it was also pretty faithful to the
setting of the story and the people and places it is supposed to depict,
although I have no experience with the emotional lives of gay men and only a
little glimmer of a feel for the west and cowboys.. The cinematography is absolutely
beautiful. The movie itself is visually
breathtaking. The story is well done and
quite moving. People were sobbing all
around me. That I was crying as well is
no indication of anything as I will shed a tear at any particularly sad or
romantic movie no matter what my intellectual thoughts on the quality of the film
may be. Even Heath Ledger, an actor I
had previously not thought much about, considering him more of a pretty boy
than a serious actor, surprised me with a memorable performance.
But, for all its beauty and sentiment I think the movie does
not begin to compare with the story. I
suspect if I had never read the story I would think it is an excellent and
meaningful movie and the story itself would stay with me for some time. But the movie did not really stay with me: I walked out of the theater, and, although I
thought about the movie, it began to fade; the scenes remembered from the film
were replaced in my mind by the text from the story, and found wanting. It was
like the movie was a shadow. Annie
Proulx’s prose conveyed far more, far more elegantly.