Yesterday we watched that little indy film, The Trip, with Steve Coogan playing Steve Coogan. I was trying to remember the last time I heard people in a film talking intelligently about the geography of places of interest. Or watched straight men recite poetry to one another. The story is about two friends who end up on a roadtrip that was actually intended to be a romantic getaway for one of the dudes and his girlfriend, who has suddenly gone back to America, suggesting they take a break. It’s a story about men in their forties. About actors and ambition. About family and fame. And food. There’s a lot of gorgeous foodie food and moors and character impressions.
I love those movies where people are just human. You know, they complain, and have awkward conversations, and irritate one another in those casual offhand ways we all manage in spite of our best efforts to be cool and flawless. I have these plans, see — I had these plans and I don’t know what happened. How did this happen?
We had a fellow over the other day to fix our wood stove, and he brought his daughter with him. She’s four and has hair in gold ringlets. “Where’d you get that hair?” I asked. “God,” she said; “I grow it myself, but God made it yellow.” And then we practiced standing on one foot, pretending to be yoga trees. Like that, you know? Like that. We were all just playing ourselves. Standing around, doing our best.