Movies I’ve Seen: Children of Men (2006)


Directed by Alfonso Cuarón. Based on the novel by P.D. James. Starring Clive Owen, Claire-Hope Ashitey, Michael Caine, Pam Ferris, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Peter Mullan, and Julianne Moore.

Spoilers follow. You’ve been warned.

It’s 2027, and time’s running out on humankind. No child has been born in 18 years, which means that elementary schools are obsolete and playgrounds have fallen into disrepair. An unspecified catastrophe has sterilized all women, and some form of manmade disaster has wrecked the world—these two things are probably related, though it’s never spelled out for sure. Illegal immigrants, desperate to escape the charred, corpse-strewn landscape and whatever has killed the rest of this world, flood into Great Britain, one of the last bastions of civilization.

A country with such power could wield it like a fountain pen, realizing that it served (willingly or not) as the base of human existence. But director Alfonso Cuarón (and author P.D. James) aren’t interested in revisiting the utopia of Star Trek. Blade Runner is too lighthearted for Children of Men, a film in which London wields its power as a shotgun. Those immigrants get boxed into cages, sent to refugee camps, and suffer through even worse options. Paranoia and propaganda—those evil twins—run rampant. Practically every surface is covered by video and animation for the state: “Avoiding fertility tests is a crime.” “Suspicious? Report immediately.” “Only Britain Endures.” Billboards for Quietus, a popular drink, are everywhere; its motto is “You decide when to go”—assisted suicide is now sold over the counter.

Other propaganda exists, too. We see stenciled designs on walls reading “The Human Project Exists.” A mythical offshore project, it’s a place where topnotch scientists are trying to re-fertilize the world, to make a way for a baby to be born in these barren times. In this world of blue, brown, and gray, shot in long and restless tracking shots like a war reporter with a great eye, the Human Project is the only splash of vibrant color in this dark world. Well, we have to imagine the color—nobody knows if the Human Project is real. It’s either an emblem of true hope or dangerous delusion, depending on your perspective.

This polarization runs elsewhere as well. Graffiti for the Fishes—either the most dangerous terrorist group in London or the most expedient freedom fighters in the country, depending on your politics—is everywhere. The Fishes are blamed for the frequent bombings for which they take no credit, but their past indicates that they at least once were as treacherous as al-Qaeda. They offer hope of an uprising against the corrupt government. We don’t really know what they have to offer, though, since, as the protagonist says at one point, “in 100 years, there’ll be no one around to see any of this. What keeps you going?”

Children of Men answers that question.

Its protagonist is Theo (Clive Owen). He drinks too much scotch; his flask is an appendage to his body. I can’t blame him. A former political activist fighting against the Man, he’s now working for Him as a low-level Ministry of Energy flunkie. The dimly lit, cluttered, cramped workplace reminds us of Terry Gilliam’s dystopian Brazil, except that Theo’s got far less hope than Sam Lowry. Before the credits roll, a crowd in a coffeeshop watches, in horror, newsreel footage that announces that the youngest person in the world (he’s 18) has just been killed. Theo weaves through the anguished faces, but he just wants his coffee; he barely looks up at the TV screen. The calm expression on his face, and his curt actions, are a fierce counterpoint to the rest of the audience. As he exits the restaurant, he splashes some hooch in his styrofoamed latte, and walks a few steps. Behind him, the coffeeshop explodes with a muffled boom and raincloud-colored smoke. Screams and sirens clog the air. A woman emerges from the wreckage, dazed and stumbling, and holding her severed arm. From the look on his face, we can see that Theo has been torn from his stupor. All of this takes place in a single, unbroken take.

And then comes the title card.

From that point on, we’re on edge the same way that we were watching Munich and War of the Worlds. No musical cue, no surging strings, and no sudden shifts to black-and-white or softly lit photography will alert us that something’s coming. A bullet could cut through the frame, through a windshield or a woman’s neck, at any time. Cuarón’s restless camerawork and seemingly effortless compositions—every frame is perfect, revealing and concealing just what we need to know and to keep us watching between our fingers—are as kinetic as Spielberg’s. His muted color scheme and a decided lack of panorama views harkens back to Minority Report and Saving Private Ryan. And, like Spielberg, Cuarón uses his technical prowess to convey moral purpose.

Theo lives in a world without hope, and Children of Men is photographed and designed in such a way that his moral bleakness is projected onscreen. Even his safe haven, a rural outpost where his bohemian parents live, isn’t pastoral or bucolic—it’s just less smudged and soot-stained than London, and a little more colorful. The movie’s world evokes the here-and-now, just slightly heightened. Owen’s world-weary postures—he’s a gorgeous, sexy man, but he’s sexiest at his most morose—brought to mind something said by writer Nathan Englander in an interview:

The last story in the collection, where a young man in Jerusalem experiences a bombing, seems like the only one that may be somewhat autobiographical.

That last story, “In This Way We Are Wise,” has the most autobiographical elements woven of any of them, and I obviously use the conceit of using the name Natan, which is not a big jump. Jerusalem blows up all the time; it’s been a lovely couple of years.

Owen displays the same fling-your-hands-up despair of Englander’s ironic/loving quip—it’s been a lovely eighteen years for him. He cares, but doesn’t want you to know it. What makes Owen’s performance so marvelous is how he transforms the character, and transforms our understanding of his world, as the movie progresses. As the movie begins, he’s withdrawn from the world. He doesn’t have friends. He doesn’t socialize at work. He retreats into the bottle constantly. He’s effectively disowned his activism—i.e., his engagement with the world—and confuses his disownment with resilience and stoicism.

But Cuarón doesn’t. The bomb-threatened London could be modern-day Jerusalem with the brakes removed. The refugee camp that we later see could be the horror of current Baghdad with a little more institutionalized ferocity. The future’s grim but Children of Men’s vision doesn’t spring unbidden from paranoid leftist fantasy but from the world in which we live. And, since the terror doesn’t come from above but from human lapses, he sees that it’s up to humans to fix things. Retreat—emotional or otherwise—isn’t a viable option.

Instead, the film believes, and wants us to believe, in the possibility of redemption, despite all the darkness. In order to get us empathizing with this sad world, Children of Men gives us a fully realized, highly specific place of dazzling depth. I’ve made the quality of the mise-en-scene evident, but the richness of its characters can’t be ignored. So many lives in this film are sharply etched in few scenes. Jasper (Michael Caine) exudes gentle stoner wit, even as he faces his death, but Caine gives the character a richness beyond Baby Boomer stereotypes. Jasper serves as Theo’s father figure—it’s not clear if he’s his biological father—and provides his son with a representation of how to live life beyond the narrow confines of solipsism.

In fact, most of the characters show useful—dangerous, sure, but all life in this movie is dangerously lived—alternatives to self-absorption for Theo. His ex-wife Julian (Julianne Moore), leader of the Fishes, shows how he could have lived his life if he hadn’t given in to self-pity. But Luke (Chiwetel Ejiofor), her compatriot and betrayer, shows how Julian’s ideals can be warped and corrupted—in short, how politics (like a virus) can take over a person’s moral consciousness, consuming the other aspects of her consciousness. Miriam (Pam Ferris) and Syd (Peter Mullan), who refers to himself in the third-person, provide the precious few moments of laughter in the film, but they’re not just there for comic relief. Miriam worked as a obstetric nurse before her job became obsolete. In a crumbling elementary-school classroom, she revisits the time in which she gradually realizes that midwifery is no longer necessary. Theo listens, and is heartbroken. So are we. Syd, initially a friend guiding Theo and company to safety, is a wisecracking fool. Then he becomes a terror, and the subtle change is almost unnoticeable until it’s too late for the audience.

But the movie’s truest catalyst for change is Kee (Claire-Hope Ashitey). She’s an illegal African immigrant, and she’s who Julian, Miriam, Theo, and everyone are trying desperately to transport to the Human Project (if, again, it even exists). Kee is pregnant, eight months along.

Theo gets wrapped up in Kee’s quest, acquiring transit papers for her before he even knows who she is. The more he (a Westerner) immerses herself in her (third-world) life, the more he cares about the state of the world. It’s no longer an abstraction to shy away from, but a world—no matter how shoddy—to embrace and fight for.

You can’t avoid the Biblical undertones of Children of Men, and you wouldn’t want to. Kee’s won’t be a virgin birth—she’s a prostitute; she and Theo joke that she’s got no idea who the father is. Biologically, he’s not the father, but spiritually he might as well be Joseph to Kee’s Mary. In a grace note, a small flock of sheep ramble through the rubble, in the midst of a fierce gun battle, evoking the Good Shepherd without spelling it out.

And, like Christ himself, the baby gets politicized and used to justify everything under the sun, even before the kid’s born. Noel Vera, who’s written one of the smartest takes on the movie, gets at why Children of Men’s politics aren’t as easily parsed as you might think, and how its ambiguities make it great:

And it’s not as liberal-leftist as you might think; the rebel group is as bad if not worse than the fascist regime—Owens and his precious cargo have to negotiate a delicate path between the two warring groups. That final scene, of the ship picking her up—is it such a happy ending? Maybe, if she weren’t so alone. As is, it’s open-ended; those men could just be another group out to exploit the hapless girl, only this time no dark knight in tattered armor will save her. Either that, or the ship is a construct of a fevered mind, dreaming its way out of a hopeless situation. A quick cut to black is no way to put such questions to rest, though Cuaron does tease us with the cries of children bubbling up from behind the black screen (a token of hope, or yet another sadistic tease?).

In any case, it’s politics that make both the child and its mother passive, rather than active, participants in the movie. Kee is acted upon, rather than acting upon life. I’m not talking about Ashitey’s performance, which is startling. She portrays the character as steely and distrustful of others, with good reason. Kee’s seen the meanness of the world in the way that most of the characters have not, and Ashitey gets this across without being overbearing.

She’s seen it all except, of course, childbirth. When struck with pregnancy, she reverts subtly back into the child she actually is. (Ashitey is nineteen; Kee’s not supposed to be any older.) She has to cared for, as she’s naïve about the most basic things—when her water breaks, she flies into a panic; she’s got no idea what’s happening to her. She doesn’t know how to nurse her infant. This mixture of maturity and childishness—really, Kee’s defensive posture of maturity that disguises her inner adolescent—comes across wonderfully in Ashitey.

Of course, why wouldn’t she be naïve about childbirth? No one in her generation has had reason to learn, and no one of the previous generation has needed to teach her. Theo has to teach Kee how to burp and hold the child. This is significant—Theo’s one of only major characters in the movie who’s been a parent before. He and Julian lost their son Dylan to a flu epidemic, and the resultant grief dissolved their marriage. As the movie’s Joseph figure, he helps Kee (Mary) usher in the new Son of God.

Except that it’s not a Son at all. Children of Men’s Christ child is a girl. In a film full of nerve-shattering surprises, this is the quiet one that upsets all our notions. Luke (Chiwetel Ejiofor), the leader of the left-leaning Fishes, can’t even comprehend that he might be a she. (Theo has to tell him; the look on Luke’s face is perfectly juggled awe and disappointment.) Just as a child upends a parent’s notion of life upon its birth, and on many days after that, Dylan’s presence as a girl, a potential mother, as something unexpected (The Fishes sooooo expected a male leader, a Gabriel with flaming sword rather than a Christ with loaves and, ahem, fishes.) flicks aside the political aspirations—left, right, or otherwise—that the movie’s characters weigh her down with.

Of course, critics weigh the movie down. Matt Zoller Seitz, author of another smart take on the movie, sees the movie’s aims as less enormous than evasive, less empathetic than showy:

The problem with Children of Men is that it’s too much of a performance and not enough of a movie. It’s filled with emphatic yet fleeting references to a century’s worth of miseries and atrocities, from the U.S. war in Vietnam and concurrent domestic unrest to Bosnia-Herzegovina, 9/11, Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bay. And Owen’s character, Theo—an ex-radical turned civil servant who’s asked by his ex-lover, the guerilla leader Julian (Moore), to secure letters of transit for the pregnant Kee—could be seen as emblematic of contemporary western political malaise, if you squint really, really hard. Unfortunately, although these touches and Cuaron’s meticulous direction indicate otherwise, the film lacks a coherent vision.

That’s well-written, but wrong. It’s just that the vision is religious rather than political. Critics have pointed (approvingly or not) the overt political nature of Children of Men, but they’re missing the point. Politics are front and center, but only so that they can be subverted. Sure, without children to temper it and give it hope, the modern world has turned into a fascist state. But the alternative uprising is just as brutal and dehumanizing. The film has to leave the city—with its nonstop propaganda—before it finds sunlight and warmth, a place of peace without slogans. As the Fishes discuss how to deal with the coming birth, the heated conversation feels more like a Senate hearing than a joyous celebration. One Fish claims that they can’t go public with the childbirth because no one will accept the Christ child coming from an illegal African immigrant. Others concur. The kid’s reduced to a position paper.

Children of Men—by making Kee a human, believable version of Mary (rather than an unassailable, beatified virgin); by making the world’s savior an African infant; by showing that the child’s (and thus the world’s) survival comes only by the collaboration of white Europeans and black Africans; by refusing to deify one political extreme over another—refuses to reduce anyone to the 21st-century version of the Port Huron Statement. It’s not that the movie is unpolitical, but rather that politics is only a part of a much more interesting, multifaceted whole.

To that end, it’s worth quoting Seitz again, this time from his 2006 review of Inside Man. (I’m snipped this before, but it’s worth repeating.):

I also appreciated Lee’s visual intelligence: The way Inside Man starts out by isolating its supporting characters with discrete, zoomed-in close-ups (most of them are talking on cell phones or listening to iPods), and then, as the movie goes on, unites everyone by moving from person to person in lengthy, uncut, Steadicam shots. It’s a visual analog for how trauma forces people out of their private technological bubble and forces them to connect with what Deadwood creator David Milch calls “the larger human organism.”

This is precisely what’s happening during the bravura long-take scenes in Children of Men. Theo, isolated and numb, is forced, through Cuarón’s technical and aesthetic vision, to connect himself to the rest of the world. He’s part of the flow, and can’t cut it into carefully managed fragments anymore. No matter how traumatic things get, Theo’s life is part of the wider human experience. Our engagement with Children of Men’s world is heightened by these excruciatingly long takes—even Seitz admits that he leaned forward as scenes progressed, as if to immerse himself fully into the movie. The audacious effect is not a performance piece, but a means for understanding Theo’s thrust back into full life.

Engagement with, and not separation from, the world is the only path for salvation, for redemption, open in Children of Men. Christ taught this lesson as well. Aesthetically and morally, it tells us to lean in closer, to pay attention to ambiguity, and to transcend politics to connect to the “larger human organism”—even the part of it that makes us uncomfortable. The film’s willingness to engage seriously with religion, through a sci-fi lens, makes Children of Men both one of the riskiest and most rewarding movies of the year.


UPDATE: As befitting a deeply resonant and challenging movie, there have been lots of noteworthy responses to Children of Men. Above, I’ve linked to a few, but I should point Wax Banks’s intelligent and well-argued response. As you’ll see, its assessment diverges from mine at some critical junctures, but it’s well worth the read.

About Walter Biggins

Walter Biggins is a writer based in Atlanta, GA. He is the co-author (with Daniel Couch) of Bob Mould's Workbook (Bloomsbury, 2017). His work has been published in The Quarterly Conversation,, Bookslut (RIP), The Comics Journal, The Baseball Chronicle, and other periodicals. Twitter: @walter_biggins.
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8 Responses to Movies I’ve Seen: Children of Men (2006)

  1. Wax Banks says:

    My own take on the film was a little different, mainly because (thinking back to my initial reaction in retrospect) I was (and tend to be) disappointed by religious/spiritual answers to the film’s pretty serious political/ontological questions. Like you I saw the ending as ambiguous, but not coherently so, which is I guess where we differ: it seemed to me that the story told a small part of a remarkable global story. It still means plenty to me that Kee’s pregnancy is a fluke, a statistical anomaly; miracles happen in movies and nowhere else, and believing in them doesn’t make them more real – part of me sees the film’s religious sentiments as a betrayal of this hard (but hopeful) outlook.
    Still, it makes sense that a Mexican (Catholic, one presumes?) director would have a different take on the post-apocalyptic world than a secular northeasterner, but as I wrote in my first response to the film, I was more annoyed than touched by the sight of soldiers and refugees alike kneeling and crossing themselves before the new Saviour. In part that’s because I saw the baby as an accessory – the awesome, ‘miraculous’ thing is Kee’s reproductive organs, which are in my mind a scientific possible-solution to this end-times problem, not a spiritual one. To me the baby isn’t an answer to a damn thing – Kee is who Cuarón got me to believe in. (And what a performance indeed!) Which is symbolically a little less religiously-toned, and that’s fine with me.
    My own mixed feelings toward the (genuinely astonishing) film aside, your response to it is fantastic. Well-written, detailed, smart. Convincing, even. OK maybe 85%, maybe 90%. Which is a hell of a lot better than the mean, and no mistake. Bravo! :)

  2. Wax Banks says:

    Incidentally: Amardeep Singh at The Valve had the same reaction to the kneeling/crossing scene as I did. Perhaps some viewers stick to the purely political reading because sincere treatment of religious salvation in these films – without thicker generic coverup on the message – is hard to stomach?

  3. Walter says:

    Wax, thanks for the (as always) thoughtful commentary. Actually, your response to the movie was one of the catalysts for this essay, and I should have linked to it. (I’ll update that soon.) I agree that it tells a small part of a remarkable global story, but you have to admit that Cuaron chooses a pretty important small part. Regardless of whether one is a Christian (full disclosure: I’ve been wavering for a decade or so), Christ/Joshua Ben Joseph/whatever is an interesting statistical anomaly. Around the time of his life, there were quite a few people claiming to be the savior of the world, to be the true reformer of Judaism, etc. For reasons that I won’t pretend to parse, the doctrine of this poor, possibly illiterate man, who didn’t travel more than a 500-mile radius from his birthplace, has stuck for 2000 years. The point being: believer or not, the fact that his presence and message are flukes doesn’t negate their importance or influence. This guy stuck, above all others. I can’t pretend to know why but, from a historical standpoint, that’s worth noting.
    About Kee/Mary: yeah, she’s almost inarguably the most interesting character in Children of Men. By positioning the story of Christ so that it’s really Mary’s story, and by making the Christ child a girl, Cuaron gets to do two things at once: 1) He makes his sci-fi allegory into a specifically Catholic story, staying within a denominational tradition that’s always given more import to Mary than Protestant versions; and 2) he’s radically re-imagined a distinctly patriarchal religion as a potentially maternal one. Essentially, he uses Catholic tradition against itself… while, somehow, giving us a cinematic vision that’s wholly Catholic. So I think the focus on Kee rather than solely on Dylan doesn’t negate or diminish the religious significance; he’s in some ways working right in line with a millennium of Catholic orthodoxy. His audacity of having a vision of the world that’s unapologetically Christian–and specifically Catholic–is brave. Even though I’m not a Catholic, and never have been, I applaud his refusal to generalize the film’s (ambigious) messages into a feel-good mush.
    And yet the film is also defiantly leftish. It fuses a cautiously liberal vision with Catholicism, showing us the possibility of an engaged religious life that’s neither fundamentalist nor conservative. Also, I think Children of Men is harsh, even at the end. We’ve got no idea if the Human Project will exploit Kee (just like everyone else), if she’s the shining hope of a new world or just a glitch in the system. And that collective kneeling… I think Noel Vera hits the nail on the head: “Along the way we see the reaction of various people to this hope, including the soldiers in the aforementioned battle scene. Are their reactions believable? Partly it depends on how willing you are to swallow such risky imagery, I suppose; I submit that Cuaron helps it along with a few details: the soldiers that kneel (religion, rearing its spiky yet still impressive head again), the moment carefully prepared for by all the ‘fugees’ reaching out in murmured awe; the fact that the rebels wait only so long before launching yet another rocket at the tanks (a miracle may have walked by, but we can only wait so long before it’s business as usual).”
    Cuaron believes in miracles, all right. I admit: so do I, to a degree. But humans will keep on being humans, no matter what. (Christ found that out the hard way.) If Children of Men had ended with the kneeling and the soaring music, I’d have thought it lapsed into sap. But it ends in the death of its hero, a mother stranded alone in the middle of the ocean, and the future decidedly uncertain. Kee and Dylan are the beginning to an answer–it’s hardly clear that Cuaron thinks we’ll get to see the end. That’s pretty hardnosed–but not hopeless–to me.

  4. Hi, Walter–
    Longtime reader, first time poster.
    Pleased as I am to be quoted and argued with, I have to disagree with your defense of CHILDREN OF MEN’s long takes vis-a-vis Theo’s re-engagement with life.
    Lee’s long takes jibe with his themes in INSIDE MAN because the movie starts out relying more heavily on closeups and cuts, then goes into long-take mode more frequently and showily as the movie progresses (and as the connections between social groups and individuals are teased out and made visual/literal by Lee’s direction).
    But while CHILDREN OF MEN sticks mostly with Theo throughout its running time, it has no such variety of grammar. It’s heavily long-take driven from start to finish. Nothing wrong with that, of course, but I don’t think it supports your reading, which implies that Theo’s re-engagement is somehow reflected in the filmmaking. I don’t see convincing evidence of that. What I do see is a film that’s absolutely in love with long, long, long takes and executes them with a spectacular flair that’s done more to make the film a critical success than anything else (except maybe Clive Owen’s oustanding performance). But the long takes don’t really illustrate Theo’s personal/internal journey so much as they illustrate the filmmakers’ love of long takes. There’s a disconnect between style and content that I think supports my more skeptical take on the film.
    I’m intrigued by your and Noel Vera’s conviction that the movie’s more religious than political-minded. There does seem to be a lot of evidence for that conclusion. However, that makes the film’s political references seem even more thin. I thought they were opportunistically shoehorned-in to make the story feel more urgent and the film more “dangerous” — if Cuaron’s main goal is a spiritual exhortation, I wish he’d tied that aspect more organically and convincingly into the references to Gitmo, the Patriot Act, the WTC disaster, the London subway bombings, etc. And come on — that Jarvis Cocker final credits song (“…cunts are still ruling the world”) is fueled by a purely political fury that didn’t jibe with the film’s melancholy ending, much less what you and Noel describe as a spiritual aspiration. (That closing credits song seemed aimed at the teenage/college student, rebel consumer contingent, which likes to be reassured that their mother would not approve of them attending this movie; on the other end of the generational spectrum, the references to failed/marginalized 1960s idealism seemed calculated to win over NPR announcers and editorial page editors who survived the turmoil of the Johnson/Nixon years and fear that the world’s forgotten about them.)
    CHILDREN OF MEN is a stunningly well-made movie, I’ll grant you that — a technical masterpiece, to be sure, with some heartfelt, even stirring passages, and excellent performances all around. But it still strikes me less as a sincere film than a movie that’s doing an incredibly convincing impression of a sincere film. Call it a sci-fi action film with some soul, and I wouldn’t disagree. But a modern classic? Or an urgent personal statement? Dunno about that.
    Also, a long overdue thanks for your Miyazaki blog-a-thon post last year. It would have touched me even if it hadn’t been such a strong piece of criticism, which it absolutely was.

  5. Noel Vera says:

    Hi, Walter, I never noticed this, thanks for the extensive quoting, which surprised the heck out of me; Matt’s rebuttal’s interesting too.
    I think it’s a failure on my part that I didn’t make my take on the religious references clear: I’m not positing some kind of spiritual ascension on the part of the characters involved, but noting the canny way Cuaron inserts religious awe into the picture. If as the old saying goes, there are no atheists in foxholes, ‘Children’ acknowledges the truism by showing us how people in times of desperation will turn to a Christ figure, even a baby Christ figure, and fall to their knees. And, I submit, Cuaron leaves that image for you to take or leave, in varying degrees.
    I do think he makes it clear that religious faith can accomplish something, a pause at best, but is no ultimate solution; the most cynical interpretation I can give it (an interpretation I half subscribe to myself) is that it’s a quickie fix that can drug people long enough for a crucial getaway.
    That’s what I mean by the “spikey but still impressive head.” Religious belief still have power, in times of chaos more than ever. You just have to look at the band of militia soldiers marching past at one point, shouting “Allah akbar! (God is great!).” Fervor, yes, but to what end? That’s a question I think the film poses quite well.
    I don’t know about the long takes; I can’t quite buy the charge that Cuaron was in love with them for the sake of. I’d noticed that the long takes stopped towards the end, when the boat slipped out of the tunnel, and Cuaron’s camera assumed a somewhat different style–I think that’s significant. Come to think of it, I’ve just had an idea what those long takes might mean, tied in with the resemblance to video games, that I might be able to work out for an article (hopefully the film opens in Manila soon, and I can write about it one more time).
    As for NPR liberalism–considering that Rush Limbaugh is the number one radio talk show host and has been for a number of years, any chance to promote the NPR sensibility is okay by me.

  6. Noel Vera says:

    Also interesting, by the way, to compare James’ book with the film. The differences are instructive, I think.

  7. pablito says:

    This is probably the worst ending to a good film I have ever seen in my life. I will chalk this up to bad writing, and probably a production problem that cut their time so they couldn’t finish the film. This is an insulting ending to a reasonably decent film, but the ending is pathetic and worthless. This is an example of very, very bad writing. I have never been so disappointed by the end of a film as I was by this movie. Folks, this was a huge compromise, probably because of time restraints and financial issues. This is insulting, to think this could have been a great work of art.

  8. Sue says:

    I like your blog, it’s always fun to come back and check what you have to tell us today.

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