Hearts In Atlantis

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May 14, 2002

Lies I could tell. Oh, lies I could tell when it comes to what came before the theatrical release of "Hearts In Atlantis". How it was I gave away a pound of flesh and pint of blood and a short-time lease on my soul in exchange for sufficient coin to buy the hardback version of "Hearts In Atlantis" by the talented writer Stephen King. How it was I abandoned all responsibility and obligation to drag my bedroll to the sidewalk before the box office of my local multiplex so I could be first in line to buy a ticket to the filmed version of the aforementioned "Hearts In Atlantis". How it was I drove people away as I fawned over the talented Sir Anthony Hopkins in his role in said movie, a wondering exercise in visual atmosphere.

Lies I could tell. Oh, lies I could tell about all this particular adventure and experience.

But since this movie is a Lie such lies I won't tell, for doing so would only add to the Lie this movie is, multiplying injury and insult to me, card-carrying member of The Great Unwashed Masses, who willingly succumbed to the nonsense and foolishness that resulted from an otherwise enjoyable (albeit not original) tale about rite of passage, mortality, nostaliga, fear, death, and Life in general, positioned in the long shadow of The Cold War.

Yes, this movie is a Lie. A Lie readily perpetuated by the Hollywood Machine, all in search of Art and Commerce, award and honor.

If one requires evidence of this rather dunning assertion look no further than the general trailer for "Hearts In Atlantis": A light, almost Harlequin, romantic etheral bit of fluff from the peaches and cream school of Oprah Winfrey, featuring Sir Anthony Hopkins, whose acting is constrained to, apparently (off-screen), passing a rather large quantity of jagged-edged Mason jar glass and metal.

Based on said marketing hype and promotion one would be led to believe "Hearts In Atlantis" is a wonder, a cinematic tour de force.

Simply, it ain't. It is, as noted, a Lie.

Superficially "Hearts In Atlantis" is a masterpiece that scares you because of the absence of otherwise known horror and terror.

The book, that is. The film, on the other hand, reminds one of what happens when you desire to watch grass grow or paint dry.

In the humid South. In August. When lovebugs would attach themselves to your extremities in earnest as they attempt to mate.

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