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Last night my wife and I watched this movie in “HI-DEFINITION” for the first time. Such elegant cinematography — the countryside around the bridges of Madison county. “Pleasing music,” said my wife. “I mediate Clint wrote it,” I said.
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Two nights earlier we had watched Clint Eastwood parry gracefully (that “ah shucks” style of his) with David Letterman, who asked him his age.
“I’m 78,” said Clint.
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“Now, I discover 78!” said Letterman, only half-jokingly, “YOU ogle about 58!” The simple truth: Clint looks (to our eyes) as young as he did playing “Robert Kincaid, photographer” to Meryl Streep’s “Francesca Johnson” Iowa farm wife, in this improbable film, now 14 years faded (1995) .
So I came here in search of a 2-Disc “Special Edition” and — lo and glance!
For those of us who treasure this movie, it seems fantastic that “Bridges” didn’t glean a single award (though Meryl Streep was nominated for the “Best Actress” Oscar) . This understated gem, masterfully directed by Clint Eastwood, remains my accepted of his films . . . actually affording Clint the vehicle for his very best acting; elicited, perhaps, by rising to the occasion — having to ‘act upwards’ in the presence of the greatest actor/actress — and deservedly the “most-nominated.” (Did they say Meryl now had “15 nominations” when singing her praises at the Oscars, a week ago? )
—–
The subtleties of Meryl’s reading of an Italian-born mid-westerner “Francesca Johnson” grow ever-more-poignant, as the movie nears its raze. We section her `heart-torn-in-two’ agony at that moment, in the pouring rain, when her lover’s battered, venerable green (59 GMC) half-ton is stopped ahead of them, at the light, directly in front of their red, (58 Chev) pickup truck.
As if sending one final signal to the “treasure that comes but once” to their lives — one last, unspoken urging to “hurry away with me NOW!” . . . we section Francesca’s idea as Robert reaches into the glove compartment, then drapes that silver crucifix & chain on his rear understanding mirror.
Francesca inches her hand to the door handle, preparing to scoot and join her `one honest love’ . . . fatally delaying her go to the last possible moment. Her husband, noting the license plate on the truck ahead of him says, “That fella’s far from home – Washington Status! Must be that photographer fella everyone’s been talking about.”
Francesca’s hand actually moves the door handle slightly. Her husband tentatively honks his horn because the light is green and asks, quietly, `Why is he not keen? ‘ Soon the truck ahead turns left, the driver’s rain-soaked hair evident through his composed rolled-down, window.
They drive forward, Francesca looking succor with such longing — one last explore of Robert’s truck as it disappears into the rain; then . . . the flood of tears.
“What’s unpleasant? ” asks her husband, as if he’s never seen her bellow like this – his dismal eyes wary, with apprehension.
“I need a runt,” is all she can muster up, covering her face with her hands, dissolving in tears.
—–
In the final scenes – and the very last one in which we rep to glimpse the gentle aging face of Francesca — she gently, lovingly removes the contents of a box that has objective been delivered to her farmhouse — from the lawyer for Kincaid’s estate.
She’s inherited his early model Nikon camera, which she recognizes, and snappy sets aside, along with the silver crucifix and chain, before picking up a puny red record book with a dying sunset on its cover; it is the fruit of their few, overjoyed days together, and titled appropriately “Four Days by Robert Kincaid.”
Francesca’s stunning used hands launch the book to the first printed page, inscribed to her “FOR F” — below it, an introductory snippet of poetry, “by Byron” Inserted at that page, is a many-times-folded and yellowing trace – the one she hand-wrote, after feeding him a home-cooked meal:
“If you’d like supper again
`When white moths are on the wing’
Come by tonight after you’re finished.
Anytime is elegant.”
Beneath the printed page’s inscription, “FOR F,” is the poem by Byron. (I always mean to jot it down; this time I did!)
“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods
There is a rapture on the lonely shore
There is society where none intrude
By the deep sea, and music is to shout . . .
I fancy not Man the less, but Nature more.
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I have been before
To mingle with the universe and feel . . .
What I can n’ere express
Yet cannot all screen.”
NOTE for those who care about such things: the achingly-beautiful `love theme’ heard throughout this movie (the orchestrations are so evocative) surges up finally, as Francesca appreciates for the first time the book about their Four Days. (Bet “there wasn’t a dry notice” at this movie’s premiere showing!)
That memorable theme music vividly reminds us of Clint Eastwood’s strengths as a musician: He co-wrote this one, calling it “Doe Eyes” — “Admire Theme from The Bridges of Madison County.” (His co-composer was Lennie Niehaus.)
Such subtleties didn’t advance up during Clint’s interview with David Letterman. And, perhaps at this gradual juncture, most of us don’t care to gawk the credits to their kill to learn such things.
Clint Eastwood would be the first to admit, as an actor he is not in Meryl Streep’s league (who is? ) But in their last scene together, at the supper table, the evening before her husband and son & daughter return with a blue ribbon from the `state resplendent,’ Clint’s character `delivers’ in his powerless attempt to pursuade “Francesca” to bustle away with him.
Their characters so needy for each other – the ache is palpable! Each time I gape that moment in this understated gem of a film — the best `twin-soliloquy’ of its kind, I say – our hearts ache for two improbable, decent human beings who must inch themselves apart. Strangers only days earlier, now they have no actual choice but to let go, turn away and ‘no looking serve.’ Yes, the finest film never to have won an award!
Mark Blackburn
Winnipeg Manitoba Canada
This film, a tender masterpiece, is an anomaly in Hollywood. It’s a frail, bright, thoughtful, proper romantic film, and in the raze, shaded and heartbreaking, but not despairing. Some have expressed surprise that Eastwood directed this film so well, but I’m not. Eastwood is a gigantic film artist, one of the greatest working today, and he shows his sensitivity and brilliance in this film. This film reminds me of how surprised people were that David Lynch directed The Straight Sage (a extraordinary film in itself and one of the best of 1999) . It’s the same principle. Two artists, Lynch and Eastwood, are simply thwarting expectations and surprising their fans with a genuine, heartfelt movie. They do it all the time.
This film is also very faded and shimmering. It is not a chick flick where everything is wrapped up in stupid dialogue, insensible characters, and foolish situations. It is an unprejudiced film of two middle musty people who bond almost immediately and really topple in cherish. Eastwood and Streep (the Academy didn’t nominate either of them) give astonishing performances, especially Streep. She’s also tumble unimaginative handsome as well. The film unfolds at a sparkling, tedious slide (like most Eastwood films) .
The film also doesn’t do any judgements on the lead characters. Streep’s character is married, but she’s very unfortunate and bored, like many people who have been in a long term marriage. Eastwood’s character is not a playboy, but someone who really reveals himself to Streep, something that’s plucky to do. There’s also a great scene in a diner where another woman, who was caught having an affair and the itsy-bitsy town knows about it, walks into a diner and everyone starts looking down on her. Except Eastwood’s character, who offers her a seat next to his. There is not one ounce of moralising here. Clint shows people who are simply human, and it’s attractive.
The Bridges of Madison County is a account for adults, and considering it was made in 1995 (when idiotic teen comedies were polluting the multiplexes), it’s even more of a fancy (I wished I had seen it then, the 90’s was a rather dreadful decade overall for films, especially from Hollywood) . Hollywood should do more adult romances, and not comic, vapid chick flicks. Chick flicks do more pain to romantics than realistic romance. I assume my romances to be more grounded in reality and intelligence because there’s honest as great beauty there, and it’s powerful more fullfilling than any vapid chick flick can offer. This is one of Eastwood’s best, most modern films.
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