He came close to his fantasy, a renewal. But shortly let his mind take him down a trail of various sorts of negativity. He was on that line a bit, a line where he could have been witty and upbeat and challenging, a line he crossed into torpor and, well, annoyance, and more.Or perhaps He knew something the other reviewers here (and they are a very solid group of reviewers) did not know: That She too wanted a renewal. Though her words bely that possibility, well into the film, she touches his hand in a way that is personal and perhaps a bit erotic. Perhaps in her wonderful life with a successful author and two nondescript kids, she would like to recoup her past with He.Perhaps He knew this, and sabotaged it. If so, Why?The subject that screenwriters love to chat about, subtext, comes up. I thought the Mamet fiasco, PHIL SPECTOR, had the characters all delivering subtext as dialogue. Thus there was no mystery. Here, however, the subtext was given us in his unspoken words, his thoughts, as voice-over dialogue in his own head. Perambulating in his skull. It worked. For Rickman, I find this his second most compelling work, the first being CLOSET LAND (which I saw on a Saturday night in a popular movie theater, but only me in the room for that film). Both works exploit his rich voice.

Less than an hour long, this is an interesting type of "different" film. It is actually a poem, recited by the protagonist, as we see the lunch meeting acted out.Alan Rickman, one of the fine underrated actors of our time is the man, the protagonist. He has arranged a lunch date with his old flame, Emma Thompson as the lady. They had not seen each other in quite a long time. In the film they are only known as 'He' and 'She'.I happen to like both Rickman and Thompson and here they are good together, but actually separate. It is clear that She has let their relationship go a long time ago but He hasn't. She comes across as happy and interesting, He comes across as bitter and tense. She politely takes a glass of wine, and 'nurses' it, while He drinks too much and has to order a second bottle.Frankly I don't recall the text of the poem, but it fit as I watched the film. Interesting short film, less than one hour, a contrast of personalities.

I was watching PBS last night only to see that Masterpiece Contemporary is going to rebroadcast this next Sunday, which completely ruined my usual pleasant anticipation of what is to come next. I saw this last year when PBS first aired it, and not only was it a waste of time, it was so awful that the depressing awfulness stayed with me long after I watched it. If you really want to see the pointless waste of life and love come to its grimy, inescapable, petty and all-too-human end, watch this. If you want to be depressed and left feeling used after watching, you'll not be disappointed, I promise.But what's really sad is that two of the greatest actors in British theater -- both brilliant and even believable in this completely self-absorbed, anal-retentive, unceasingly self-obsessive string-of-consciousness piece of crap -- selected this dog to perform in anyway. I was struck by how luminous Emma Thompson still is and how beautifully she has aged, and Alan Rickman is, well, the delight that Alan Rickman always is. And yet even these two could not retrieve the show, or give any hope to their characters' existence.In fact, now that I think about it, it is entirely possible that their brilliant acting made it as bad as it was, but that just brings me back to my original point: brilliant "singers" but the "song" is still nauseating. If it's the excellence of Alan Rickman's acting that watching his character seriously reminds me of someone who obsessively studies their own boogers and scabs in private, that's not his fault, but proof of both his own talent and the complete uselessness of the character he's playing. Perhaps that's the art of the piece, but it's just not my cup of tea.I don't want to give spoilers; I will just say that the most extreme definitions one could ever place on the words "narcissistic" and "selfish" are understatements when applied to this plot and its dreary execution. The problem is NOT the actors, it's the play itself. It's depressing as hell and, for me, utterly pointless.Definitely read all the reviews before watching, because it may be that you are one of the folks who finds the art in this piece and would be absolutely delighted with it. I, unfortunately, am not. I love these particular two players in just about anything -- they could act the phonebook as far as I'm concerned -- but this play is just a depressing dog from start to bitter, useless end, and I felt honor bound to warn others.

This would have been unwatchable (and even unlistenable) had it not been for Rickman and Thompson. The writing is tedious, clichéd, and overwrought and every "insight" banal. There is even a slight mystery whose solution you can see from space. Why anyone would have decided to film this ridiculous poem is beyond me; I suppose the poet had some good connections. As it is, Rickman is too perfect for the role. His looks and his voice too easily lend themselves to the pathetic and the desperate. He gets to both too quickly, partly because the language and narrative take him there and partly because the language, bad as it is, made me feel worse for him, made me pity him as an actor, thus creating another uncomfortable distraction. All that pity so soon and in one layer too many made me lose patience with the whole production. I kept hoping for something more, thinking that Rickman and Thompson would never have been involved with something this bad unless it offered something real and true. Instead, I think their participation has to do with the work ethic of the English actor: you must never take a break, you must always be acting. And if you can do a well-produced project with another excellent actor, then why not do it? Maybe other friends or respected colleagues were on board. I can't think of any other reasons why Thompson and Rickman would have done this. Sigh.