Earlier today, Jeff and I went to see Big Fish at Shirlington. This magical, enchanting story of a young man trying to come to terms with his relationship with his estranged, dying father, and to understand the truth of his father’s life, seemingly hidden behind–or within–a series of tall tales, has entered my personal list of the best movies of all time. It certainly had the strongest emotional impact upon me of any movie I can recall in quite some time, magnified, perhaps, by its coming so close upon the heels of my own father’s death, to the extent that several times I was worried that audible, choking sobs were going to join the flood of tears streaming down my cheeks; I managed to avoid making too much noise, though I was visibly trembling and clutching Jeff’s hand for support. Even as the final credits finished, I was still so emotionally overcome that I almost was unable to leave the theater, and was still continuing to break into tears as we made our way to dinner just up the street.
[Apropos of nothing, this is my 400th entry.]