Last night, at 11.30pm, Mark and I sat on our sofa and sobbed.
The cause of our sorrow? "My Life Without Me."- the saddest, gloomiest, most life-affirming film I have ever seen. The story tells of one woman's choice to hide the fact that she is dying from her young family in order to live what is left of her life with a passion she never had before.
Beautiful and sparse, the acting is stunningly performed by all concerned and what little action there is, is studded with flashbacks and a bizarre and really rather fabulous ballet scene in the supermarket.
We watch as Ann receives the news of her cancer from a doctor unable to look her in the eye, we listen as she records messages for every one of her daughters birthdays she will miss, we see her lie to her husband abut her health and do her best to find him someone else to love and in the end we hold our breath as she allows herself to be loved, however temporarily, by a beautiful stranger (the divine Mr Mark Ruffalo) able to see past the raw passion she offers to a woman who has never known what it is to be wanted and not just needed.
We see all of this, but we never, ever see her fall apart.
Mark and I cried for Ann: for all that she left behind, for the teeny sorrow in the details of her life and for all the incredible things we do not do justice to in our day.
And I loved it, but I never want to see it again.
And darlings, if you think this post was just an excuse to squeeze a photo of Mark Ruffalo into what is essentially a homemaking blog, you would be right. Just the man's voice makes me tingle, let alone his lovely face.