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Quarter to Life

August 3, 2000. 2:22 PM. Twenty-five years later. Something about the quarter-life sentiment struck the fear of God in me. Am I really at my quarter-life point? My father — three strokes and two heart attacks before fifty. Still hanging in there, somehow. My father’s father died of a stroke before fifty. My father’s mother died before forty, of cancer. I’ve already had open-heart surgery. Sure, they had their vices: smoking, chewing, sitting around. I don’t remember my grandfather. I never met my grandmother. The only biological grandparent I have left is sitting in memory care. I want veins on my arms and legs. I want clear piss. No acne. A jawline.  When friends ask me to hike Mount Timpanogos, I don’t want to debate myself. I don’t want limits anymore. Being active has always been the solution to everything, so why the hell have I avoided it? I want to feel better. Look better. Live better. I want sex to be better. I just want to be better. The uncertainty of what’s ahead flippe...
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Film Review: Parthenope


I hate that I connected with this one. I shouldn’t have understood it. The message felt too personal to the writer.

And yet, the one who spends his days wanting more — when there’s already so much to be thankful for — understands.

What are you thinking about?

The writer asks this because no one ever asked them.

This film. The premise. The story. The aesthetic. The theme. That’s what they were thinking about. But no one cared until they wrote it down and shared it with the world.

I could go on.

There’s some weird shit in this film. Unnecessary stuff. Jarring, even. You’d think the giant baby-man would be the issue. Or maybe the snot rocket dripping from her nose.

Nope.

My issue was the landscape pan. A wide shot of the city filmed in a frame rate so high it looked choppy and unnatural. It physically hurt to watch. Maybe that was the point. But a visual that makes the viewer look away defeats the purpose of being seen.

Draw me in. Don’t push me out.

Also, Celeste (Parthenope) alone makes me want to write an entire script just for her. She is a timeless woman. Regal, yet so real you can feel her.

Parthenope is a beautiful and historic Greek myth. Why contort it with the extremes of modern filmmaking? Maybe it’s a necessary mess. Or maybe I’m just American. Maybe I’m immature.

There is a beauty in this film that you may never see again. It could have been unforgettable if it weren’t for the strange, unnecessary oddities that distracted more than they deepened.

Still, I recommend it. Especially to those who have made overthinking part of their personal identity.

Acta est fabula. 4/5