We’ve begun re-watching Amour. I’d forgotten so much of it. Though I remembered their kitchen. The smallness of it. The old-fashioned-ness of it. It’s a film that takes its time. As the old do. Details are lingered over. As are empty rooms, dark with shadow. She stands at the sink cooling his boiled egg under the tap. He’s at the table drinking coffee, talking about getting a handyman in to fix the front door. The drama begins when she has a kind of waking black out. Is unresponsive. Gone. You feel their terror. Both of them. Later he folds her now paralysed body into bed. Thank you, she says. Before all this, he said she’d looked pretty. Had I told you? he asked. Love. Old love. Slow love. Steady love. With the promise of loss. Can it ever be borne?
