In Bruges

I was in the worse mood for a party. Not that I didn't try; I made huge efforts to get my mood back, but it looked like it had disappeared into thin air. It was the kisses and the hugs that I was missing, I guess, nothing more, nothing less. Just like that. So, no party, it would be, even if I still tried in vain to motivate me, by thinking of the possible party-goers: young blonde guys with blue eyes --no, it didn't work this time.

I went upstairs and rummaged the chocolate drawer, then came down again to watch a movie. Something English, I reckoned, a movie where people will speak with that magic accent that makes you forget and (maybe) forgive. I quickly decided to travel to Bruges in the middle of the night, together with Colin Farrell and the English Patient revived, Ralph Fiennes.

Amidst water it should be easier to forget one's inner turbulence. Medieval surroundings could also help. I was drawn into the scenes fast enough: gangsters with noble heart, dwarfs with vices and issues on how different people value the same thing: beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and it's never banal to repeat that statement, cause it's totally true. When a gangster, used to fast life and urban turmoil goes to Bruges, he will probably find it a shithole, I get his point, even if I do not share it. But this is not where I'm getting at.

Somewhere halfway --as it is a long (107min) film-- I had to stop and think a bit more. Not intentionally, but the site restricted the viewing of the second part for another hour or so. Naturally, I thought of Bruges. Of going there with him, or at least watching the film with him, it was him everywhere. It was the egoistic pain of losing something when you are not ready to lose it, not yet, as I understood later on, but on that night that fact evaded me. Not being in charming Bruges was not as big a torture as not being anywhere with him. Whatever.

I continued my viewing, despising myself a bit, because I was a bit too cheap and got away not only with watching a quality film online, in a rather small laptop screen, but also watching it in bad resolution. I guess I did not like beauty and purity all that much; I could very well stand watching moving pixels instead of HD every now and then. Bad, bad me.

The exquisite acting took me away from my sad thoughts momentarily. Brendan Gleeson as Ken was the best thing I have seen for a long, long time. The dim light near the Tower with the many stairs that Colin Farrell as Ken was not ready to walk up, the foggy, mysterious atmosphere, the film in film sequences, the humour and the irony, the excitement and the kindness, were all mixed up in a refreshing coctail that prevented me from being thirsty till the end of the film. Which is a great film, by the way. Unfair, like life itself with a positive touch towards the end, but still, a great film.

Being in awe for half an hour more, I got the brilliant idea to sent him the link, even if it was no good. After all, a great film is not found easily nowadays and Martin McDonough is a theatre man and I had to show my support --I love theatre. It was a mild early summer night and after eating some more chocolate I called it a day and went to sleep, feeling excruciatingly deserted.

In the beginning of autumn, he told me that he saw the film and he liked it. I was surprised to talk to him again. Towards the end of spring, I enjoyed a great amount of Belgian chocolate, together with him in Bruges, this time. I looked back and felt some kind of excitement with life and the games it plays to us. I frankly did. I would never believe on that lonely summer night that this would happen, never. But, I would believe even less, if they told me, that while this improbable coming together was taking place, I would still feel deserted all the same.