Although I had moved a few miles north before the World Trade Center was attacked, and I didn't look down the Hudson River and see smoke where the towers used to be until after they'd both fallen, I was deeply shocked, and I grieved for them for at least ten years. It was the most painful experience of my adult life. I didn't know anyone who died there; I was grieving for the buildings, which had been there in the background of my life like an anchor I didn't know was so important until it was gone.
But those wounds finally healed, and seeing this movie now, in 2013, isn't as cathartic for me as it might have been when it first came out eight years ago, when my grief still seemed inconsolable. So for me, now, this is just a movie, and I respond to it as if it were about a subject that never affected me at all.
As a movie, it's better than I expected. Michael Urie and Elizabeth Kapplow are excellent as Eric and Josie, and the rest of the cast are good enough not to be distracting (except for Jeremy Beazlie's horrendous British accent). The direction is surprisingly good, which is unusual when a playwright adapts his own play to the screen and also directs it; that's almost always a formula for failure, but Sloan does it fairly well.
As a play, it's beautifully written, never predictable or trite, and I'm sure it was deeply moving when performed live in a theatre. Unfortunately, the transition to film could have been better. But that's a very hard transition to make, and nobody has EVER done it perfectly except Mike Nichols with Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf.
So although I admired this movie a lot, I never really believed it, never got deeply involved in Eric's trauma, because I could never get past the knowledge that he was acting.
Stage acting and movie acting are very, very different; and this was a play performed for a camera instead of an audience: admirably done, but the stage-bound formality of both the writing and the acting kept me at a distance emotionally.
But those wounds finally healed, and seeing this movie now, in 2013, isn't as cathartic for me as it might have been when it first came out eight years ago, when my grief still seemed inconsolable. So for me, now, this is just a movie, and I respond to it as if it were about a subject that never affected me at all.
As a movie, it's better than I expected. Michael Urie and Elizabeth Kapplow are excellent as Eric and Josie, and the rest of the cast are good enough not to be distracting (except for Jeremy Beazlie's horrendous British accent). The direction is surprisingly good, which is unusual when a playwright adapts his own play to the screen and also directs it; that's almost always a formula for failure, but Sloan does it fairly well.
As a play, it's beautifully written, never predictable or trite, and I'm sure it was deeply moving when performed live in a theatre. Unfortunately, the transition to film could have been better. But that's a very hard transition to make, and nobody has EVER done it perfectly except Mike Nichols with Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf.
So although I admired this movie a lot, I never really believed it, never got deeply involved in Eric's trauma, because I could never get past the knowledge that he was acting.
Stage acting and movie acting are very, very different; and this was a play performed for a camera instead of an audience: admirably done, but the stage-bound formality of both the writing and the acting kept me at a distance emotionally.