Since I was about 23 or so, I had this fantasy, born of artist biographies (John and Yoko, strangely) and writer auto-biographical details (Didion-Dunne, peeling off to separate sides of their Malibu house to write, and mid-day he’d bring her a sandwich and a coke and they would read each others writing). I also had some romance for the O’Keefe-Stieglitz pairing, she off being a reclusive solo genius, away from the “New York men” and having him visit periodically at her choosing, he, her curator and cheerleader–but then I read more and also saw that terrible-ish movie with Jeremy Irons as Stieglitz (will not even bother to google up the name because I DO NOT recommend it) and realized he was away because she banished him because all he did was hurt her with his continual philandering.

And here’s Matt and I on the couch, 8 days married, already actually married, though I do not feel very newly married, perhaps due to the lack of fanfare and to-do about it–I do not know. I do know I am very happy to be married. Especially given that it’s to Matt. Anyhow, so we started this movie, us newly marrieds and the newly pre-marrieds–this typically understated and bittersweet Mike Leigh fare, this older couple, gardening together, quietly enjoying each other, counting on each other, acting out like my grown-up ideal coupledom–this domestic fare, rather than fiery artistic partnership… And within perhaps 6 minutes of opening credits, I was the only person still awake to watch it.

It reminded me about how seeing my first Mike Leigh movie, Life Is Sweet (Uptown Theatre, Minneapolis, 1991) in ninth grade–maybe with my mom, though maybe she just told me I would like it?–was one of the first times I remember feeling like there was a girl I could identify with one the screen, who seemed real and more than the sum of her romantic longing. To wit:

Another Year‘s picture of stable partner is quite nearly dull in comparison to every other motion picture marriage, which is all star crossed loves, panting desperation, time-traveling, sexless revulsion, car chases, wretched men-are-hapless-beerdrinking-bumblers and women-are-irrational-jealous-nags cliche or if it’s a comedy, the dad is shown being unable to put a diaper on right or if it’s a couple that is divorcing because the woman is moving on somehow (or successful when the dad is not)–the inevitable spoiling the child with wild fun. Who wants to submit to that fantasy of partnerhood? How grim! I will gladly take Another Year or Away From Her (well, only the cozy parts in the cabin, before Julie Christie loses her mind) instead. That said, my favorite movie about marriage, as gut-churning as it is–Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?–which is like, two brutal hours of perfectly cruel fighting–but that’s on purely cinematic grounds: