The first time I watched this movie, I thought it was hilarious. Slapstick comedy, right? Lily Tomlin and Dustin Hoffman—how can a cinephile go wrong, right? Then we get to the blanket scene, which is A. hilarious and B. deeper than I was prepared to go upon initial viewing.
But Hoffman’s great; he’s disarming. That smile makes you want to mirror it back.
Yeah man, we are all one. We’re all stardust. Hell yeah, I’m ready, sir. Let me get in this bag and feel what it’s like when I’m plugged into the unity of the universe.
The premise is so deep and the execution so silly that it’s hard to know what to hold onto during this movie. My advice? Don’t. Let it all go and see what bubbles up for you.
By the time I went from The Blanket Scene to this next scene, I had made one critical mistake. I got comfortable. Jude Law is here—he’s doing peak Jude Law—incredibly attractive and charismatic. It’s hard not to stare, and then the recording starts.
And then the next recording. Awkward. And the next. Jesus fucking Christ. I have done this. I have told the same story a million times. Oh god, I’m not Albert. I’m Brad. Fuck, I’m Brad. This simply won’t do.
And so, I embarked on my very first cinematic existential crisis.
Lucky for me, it wasn’t my last. And you know where I’m at 20 years later? I’ve just realized I’m actually the padded body bag in this scenario.