The Wife and I saw this

The other day.  It is an incredibly sobering film, which grips you until the end, except as no one really knows exactly what happened, the ending can be frustrating for viewers.

The story is:  A drop dead gorgeous woman, who loved to wear revealing fancy frocks, and who could sing, even making a demo tape, died in her flat in London in 2003.

Her body was not discovered until three years later, when the tenancy council finally could not support the 2400 hundred pounds (about $5000) she owed in back rent.  The teevee was still on. The teevee had played endlessly for three years straight.

So, thus, we meet the friends and lovers of our victim, Joyce, who for whatever reason, despite endlessly gushing over Joyce's wit, beauty, fashion sense, and general joie de vivre, had somehow, all of them, failed to  have any single bit of contact with Joyce over the three year period her deceased body melted literally in to the rug of her flat.  She was so decomposed that no reason for her death could be officially offered.

Heartbreaking as that is, what is more heartbreaking is the clues she left behind in the flat the day she died.  She had wrapped Xmas presents, and they were all beside and around her.  The last record she played on her turntable.  Her demo tape, the cassette case cracked and separated from the holder. The dirty dishes in the sink.

As connected as we all are through social networking, smartphones, and iToys, it is shocking to comprehend this kind of insane isolation.

Dreams of a Life streams on Netflix, and comes v highly recommended by me.

















Ardent