This review may contain spoilers. I can handle the truth.
elaina’s review published on Letterboxd:
This review may contain spoilers.
This road seems unnecessarily long.
It's snowing outside. Frigid, airy flakes that don't stick, but keep falling. Relentlessly. You're with a girl, and she is perfect, but she's unsure. Is she? Maybe not. The countryside is beautiful with the snow, in a sad, lonely way. It's more beautiful when she's here. She's going to meet your parents, and that means something. Is that why she's unsure? Where in their timeline would she feel more sure? Should she meet them when they're old? Middleaged? On their deathbed? Youthful, like when you were a child? Maybe all of the above, or none. It's still snowing.
Your old room upstairs is crowded with fragments of your life, and most of it reminds you of her, but it is so lonely. The pictures on the living room wall are filled with faces. One of them looks like her, but it's you. All faces begin to look the same at some point or another, anyway. Maybe she did look like you at that age. Time moves through everything, bringing faces and memories with it until it all blurs together. It's nice to stop for a moment, to stand stagnant in your memories. Your high school. So many faces you remember from it that you suddenly want to pause, to stay, but she wants to leave. She is definitely unsure, and it's still snowing. Harder now.
You think of a musical, the one they keep doing, where the villain is only a villain because he is not the hero. There's a dance that they do, too, in this musical, a ballet so light and content it's almost like a dream. And suddenly your perfect girl is no longer unsure; you're dancing with her, twirling her through an entire lifetime of warmth and love until you realize that she shouldn't be sure. She shouldn't be sure because you are not Curly, the hero of this story, you are the cold and villainous Jud, and you must save her from yourself. The snow that seems to follow you reminds you of that.
She deserves autonomy, this perfect girl, which is something you can't give her. A painter, a poet, a quantum physicist. Lucy, or Louisa, Yvonne, or Amy. Even you can see that she deserves to be more than a manic pixie dream. No one should live as an amalgamation of another person's fantasies.
So you return yourself to your lonely room, one that feels too familiar, and the faces you have watched over the years blend together, all youthfully old and shining back at you. Finally, they see you. And you sit on your bed, a bed made for just one, and resign yourself to your fate. Because life isn't meant for the Juds, it's meant for the Curlys. You know that now. And sometimes your only choice is to be a pig slowly eaten alive by maggots.
It's still snowing. When will it stop?