RC: It happens that the first screening of Olive Kitteridge, which concentrates on a couple married for some 40 years, was scheduled for the evening of our 45th wedding anniversary. Do we watch the movie for four hours, or have a delightful memorial dinner at some lovely Lido restaurant? Since I hadn’t read a page of the book, and Mary had been enraptured and haunted by it, I thought she should decide whether we go to the film and how long we stayed.
MC: We let the movie decide. If it grabbed Richard and didn’t seem to me like a betrayal of the book, we would stay. For decades at festivals, we’ve had a signal when a movie exasperates one or both of us: raising the five fingers of one hand, meaning that if it doesn’t drastically improve in the next five minutes, we leave.
RC: And after two minutes of Olive Kitteridge, you flashed the five!
MC: I was jolted by the opening scene of Frances McDormand as Olive in the woods, gun in hand, preparing to kill herself. I thought it announced a film that was going to turn all the delicate nuances of the novel into blatant, explosive statements. Yet things quickly calmed down; the storytelling got sharper and the characters soon bore a family resemblance to those in the book. We stayed for all four hours.
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