I read a review of the movie Olive Kitteridge recently and decided to download the novel before seeing the film. I think I'll skip the movie.
I admit I am not being fair to the book and I am prejudging the movie, but I have always hated stories of ordinary. I consider myself to be ordinary, but the last thing I want to do is read a book or see a film about ordinary lives of quiet desperation. I confess I pushed through the book too rapidly, not bothering to keep straight the cast of characters and their complicated relationships. I already know people like this. I skimmed through the dialog; it wasn't anything I haven't heard before. I kept hoping for a little unexpected excitement to show up, something awesome or unpredictable, some great revelation. I live for the moments of extraordinary and, if I can't find enough of them in my own life, then I'm quite happy to vicariously experience someone else's extraordinary moments.
Nevertheless, I am not a lover of fantasy. I'm all for a strong dose of reality in literature or film, but I want that magical joust with the confines of ordinary life. Break out. Transcend. Overcome. Bust up. Take off. Blow it away. Since childhood I have hungered for extraordinary when I first read King Arthur and His Knights. Give me an adventure.
Oh, Olive. Just because you've lived and stumbled through your life like the rest of us and ended up learning a thing or two doesn't mean you've got an interesting story to tell. I don't want to hear it.
Tell me if I've got it all wrong.
Fact-Checking the Sunday Shows
42 minutes ago