You Can Count On Me

This past week, I finally watched Kenneth Lonergan's film after years of vacillation and leap frogging by other media. I knew it is a well regarded and reviewed film, winning the Sundance Jury Prize and the adulation of several of my friends and friends' friends. The past few years, I had been playing catch up with films like You Can Count On Me. I had made sure to see classics that have otherwise eluded me: Cool Hand Luke, The Piano, Blue Velvet, My Own Private Idaho. These flicks are rather disparate in any sense of thematic qualities, but they all somehow stuck in my head as "affecting" pieces of art, things that would move me. Of course I "should" see these films, but the promise of possibly being changed by something was somewhat daunting.

But You Can Count On Me stuck out as a movie that I was almost scared of. It might, I thought, actually upset me. There might be something there that could shake me and open me up in uncomfortably traumatic ways. I came to think of it as a disturbing movie before I had even seen it. This opinion had mostly been shaped by two of my good friends' conversations about the movie. My one friend told the story about the first time he had seen it, after which he determined he must break up with his current girlfriend, because he realized, "she couldn't count on me." What the hell did that mean? I almost didn't want to know for fear of the truth being too much for me to bear. Therefore, I was reluctant to actually watch the movie. It took on a mythically tragic quality that snowballed into an untouchable piece of art. In many ways, it might as well have been Dancer In The Dark (which I'm still to much of a wuss to attempt). I was especially reluctant to watch the movie with own my girlfriend, Jackie.

Thankfully, there is a happy ending to my story of watching this film, because it is, actually, and undeniably, so damn wonderful. There are some rough moments in the film, but nothing that will haunt your subconscious. And after five days of reflecting on You Can Count On Me, I've come to the conclusion that it's actually one of the best movies I've seen in a long time. The characters are vivid and compelling with exquisite portrayals by Linney, Ruffalo, Broderick, and Culkin. The dialog is honest and, at times, even evocative. I was astounded by the sheer mimesis of contemporary American angst and by my own compassion for Terry's humane maliase.

Terry: So how are ya?
Sammy: I'm fine, Terry.
Terry: So um... um, how's Rudy?
Sammy: We're fine, Terry.
[beat]
Sammy: How are you?
Terry: Uhhh, yeaahhh...

The priest foil turns out to be an especially spiritual and philosophical intersection in the story that left me holding a very clear mirror up to thoughts of my own life. Yet it is a story that succumbs to the truth while not reaching for morality or tidiness. And Lonergan should be applauded for that alone, because he shows us that fine films and stories don't need to end with sunsets. Of course, the Jury has already applied that appropriate applause.

I encourage and frankly insist people see this movie. It is and will be a relevant film for its literary frankness and its complete charm. I want to see it again. Now. Too bad I hadn't known how much I would love it, or at least I could have not been so intimidated by it. Maybe I would have done that sinful act of actually buying a movie like an album, and owning it before I had known it. Ultimately, I was scared to love this film for no good reason. Lesson learned.