I went to see “Dark Knight Rises” on Saturday with my husband, and although I know this probably isn’t going to win me any friends, I didn’t think it was that good. Too much exposition, no grand cinematography, and exactly two scenes near the end that were close enough to what I was expecting from the movie to make me think that the last half hour had been directed by someone different than the first two hours, but I was wrong. The movie settled right back into its half-way long shots that didn’t astound me, and so much dialogue to build the story, instead of action to illustrate the story, that I got up and left twice, just to get a break from the endless stream of yammer – (not like Tarantino yammer, which I eat up like jellybeans; this was more like, oh, you need to know all of these details or you won’t know what’s happening, which makes me squirm).
I have seen every Batman movie from the first one with Michael Keaton and Jack Nicholson, and liked them in varying degrees. I wonder about myself so often, and even now I wonder if what happened in Colorado affected what I thought of the movie. I don’t think that it did, but I still wonder. And I wonder what was going on in James Holmes’ mind that night, and what had been going on his mind for so long that led him to the theatre that night. I think helplessness and rage are just two of the emotions that I’m feeling about what happened, along with being terribly sad. My heart goes out to the victims and their families – there are no easy answers here, just pain. I won’t stop going to the movies, and from the looks of the packed houses on Saturday night, most other people won’t stop, either. The irony (for me, anyway) is that now one of the places that we could go to escape the pain of life has become another reminder of that pain.