The Reader

Tuesday afternoon, a friend and I drove to Little Rock to Market Street Cinema to see The Reader.

I saw a lot more of the current Kate Winslet that I would have preferred, but seeing the aging Winslet was really something—so believable, so well done. And casting Ray Kross as the young Ralph Fiennes was brilliant.

I’m not sure, even now, what I think about the movie. It wasn’t the best I’ve ever seen, but it was nowhere near the worst, either. The film raises so many questions that it does not, or cannot, answer. And neither could we. We discussed the movie all during dinner and on the drive home. It provided plenty of food for thought, which I always appreciate in a film, but no real answers—only layers to peel back, suppositions to propose, theories to explore.

It’s one of those movies that really makes me want to go read the book—not because there was anything lacking in the acting—but a raised eyebrow, a pointed stare, a perpetual sternness, a tear rolling down a cheek; those things can only communicate so much. They must be interpreted. Books, though, let you get inside heads. They provide more clues. The interpretation is much easier.

Well—there’s another book to go on my must-read list.