Joan had always hated the Pattersons. She’d told John a thousand times how her mother, God bless her soul, had always warned her about being friends with those people. Not that she’d listened, heavens no, and still didn’t. Well, perhaps this might be the final time she thought, struggling with her suitcase up the stairs onto the XPT, perhaps they might have used up their last chance.
“Oh will you hurry up!” barked John from behind her.
“I’m trying as best I can,” she scolded, making a point of heaving the suitcase with both hands.
“Well, you’re not the one left holding the heavy suitcase are you?”
“Oh please stop complaining, I’m nearly there.”
“Nearly there, Patricia will have had her 70th birthday by the time they start the blooming train.”
“Oh stop being so melodramatic.”
“There not even my friends, well Patricia isn’t anyway. I don’t know why you always go to these things anyway.”
Patricia had by this time made her way over to the window seat and was wrestling to fit her bag into the baggage rack. Turning her head sharply at the last remark, she saw John having a monumental uphill battle with his own, heavier, suitcase.
“Not your friends are they?” she snapped back, “Well next time I’ll make sure to tell Bill he doesn’t need to invite you out on the boat.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do because you seem to enjoy his boat, his beer but when it comes to a simple…”
“Alright, alright, I get the point Joan.”
“You do, I’m so glad.”
John had at last mounted the stairs and was organising the suitcases in the rack. Looking back at Joan, already staring pensively out the window, he felt a heaviness slowly settle itself over his stomach. He usually dreaded these trips anyway; the long train ride followed by hours of the same conversations with people he only met once a year, but to have picked a fight so early on in the piece had made it that much worse. Lumbering back to the seats, as Joan deliberately moved her handbag away from him, he weighed up his options.
“I’m sorry.”
“Really, what are you sorry for?” she replied caustically.
“You know, what I did before.”
“Which was?”
“For yelling at you when we got on the train.”
“And…”
“And those comments about Patricia.”
“Well, I’m glad that you are.”
Joan turned back to the window and continued to look out onto bushland as the train rushed by. In her head she had already forgiven him by the time she had sat down but she knew better than to let him get away with something like that too easily. As her mother, God bless her soul, had always reinforced with her: politeness at all times, especially when you are angry. Thus John needed to be taught a lesson for losing his temper like that, especially in public which most embarrassed her.
“Do you want your magazine?” he said, waving a copy of the Woman’s Day in her direction.
“Not now, you’ve made me cross and I couldn’t concentrate on it.”
“Cross, I already apologised about that.”
“I know and the apology was accepted.”
“So you’re going to use that as an excuse to be cross all the way home then.”
“I didn’t say I would, all I said was that I didn’t want to read my magazine.”
John restrained himself from throwing the magazine into the aisle. For fifty years he had put up with this and every time he asked himself the same question: why? He knew the answer of course: it was what they did now and what they always did. Was it love? He had a vague notion that the longevity of their marriage somehow made that a answer void. Perhaps it was comfort? At the age of sixty-five he surely couldn’t be blamed for seeking a bit of that. The bottom line though was that he would have to hold his tongue until Newcastle and hope she would get over it. He placed the magazine on the spare seat next to her and opened his Patrick White biography.
“How dare they?” she expounded a few minutes later.
John was so absorbed in his book that he didn’t look up.
“It was just so rude!” she said, this time louder.
John put his book down, “What was rude?”
“The Pattersons of course.”
“What did they do?”
“You mean you don’t remember? Or are you trying to ignore it?”
“I genuinely can’t remember.”
“You know; what they said at the party on Saturday.”
“What did they say? I can’t remember?”
Joan had the scene burned into her memory. It was business as usual for Patricia’s birthday weekend, a small gathering of intimate friends with a few nights to drink and catch-up on the year passed. All was going well until the subject of their schools days had been brought up. Patricia, as usual, bragged about how she had come from nothing and that she had always felt looked down upon by everyone. Joan, playing the comforter assured her that it was nothing really and that in the end everyone had turned out alright. Patricia, who was on her sixth champagne by now, decided this night that this wasn’t enough. Turning on Joan she had poured scorn on their friendship and accused Joan of pitying her and treating her like a house pet. Too shocked to defend herself, Joan had tried to calm things down but that only made Patricia angrier. It all ended when Patricia finally got off her chest the thing that had bugged her most all those years: “Joan, your mother was such a bitch.”
“Darling, are you okay?” John’s tone sounded slightly distressed.
“Fine, everything’s fine,” Joan replied as if coming out of a daze.
“What did the Pattersons say? You were about to tell me.”
“Oh, it was nothing really, just something silly.”
“Are you sure? You seemed quite upset a moment ago.”
“Really, nothing but a few drinks talking.”
“Oh, I know how Patricia can get after a few. Are you sure it wasn’t too nasty?”
“No, no. As I said, it was just the drinks talking.”
“If you like, I can cancel the fishing trip with Bill – its just fishing anyway.”
“Don’t be silly, we wouldn’t want to offend Bill over such a small silly thing.”
“Are you certain? It seemed to really upset you.”
“It’s fine. Can you pass me that magazine?”
Joan flipped through the magazine, barely registering the ups and downs of Bragelina and Tomkat. The image of Patricia’s face, heavily made up with her sneering mouth, kept repeating and repeating in her mind’s eye, her words repeating over and over. She resolved to not put up with that ever again.
The phone rang and she fumbled with the keypad before hitting the talk button. It was Patricia.
“Yes darling, we had a fantastic time… Next year? Of course we will Patricia. We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Travels with the Doctor – Death by a thousand cuts
The Doctor was unhappy.
And everyone knew it.
Mrs Austen, who often lamented being stuck in her cubby hole, was for once thankful of her isolation. The Doctor had spent all morning tramping around his office, curtly dealing with the daily business of the school and anyone who got in his way.
At about tea time, when she was expected to appear with a fresh cup of Lipton’s and a tray of Scotch fingers, she emerged timidly from her desk and began preparations for her dreaded duty. As usual, she dipped his tea bag slowly in and out of the cup he used, watching cautiously lest any tea slip over and stain the fine bone china. Finally, she expertly extracted all the non-broken biscuits from the packet, the few spare not already grabbed by the other staff, and arranged them cautiously on the plate. Taking a deep breath and looking hopefully for one last distraction, she began her mission.
Rapping lightly on the door, Mrs Austen had to steady the tea tray as her hands shook slightly. While she had seen him in a temper, over troublesome staff or an enraged board director, she usually had some idea of what ailed him. However, today she had no idea and it was not knowing, and more importantly being expected to know, that frightened her the most. She awaited his reply.
“Who is it?” the Doctor barked.
“Your morning tea sir.”
Silence.
“If you like, I can come back later,” she reiterated in a slightly softer tone, hope springing in her that perhaps a break from his morning ritual may spare her this time. This was followed by a shuffle of papers and she heard him pad towards the door. Bracing herself, she put on a forced smile and consciously relaxed her shoulders as he opened the door with military precision. Indicating that she should join him for tea, he held the door for her as she entered.
Making her way carefully over to the leather couch, she noticed that the morning paper lay open on page two. What struck her as unusual was that he often finished with the papers by nine, another of his daily rituals, and returned it to be perused by guests and his staff. As he turned around she desperately scanned the pages for a clue to his discontent but no headline cried out either the school’s name or trashed private school funding.
Lowering herself into the soft leather couch, always a challenge when trying to balance his fine china, she searched the room for some other clue to his mood but the office yielded nothing. His immaculately arranged shelves, alphabetical by subjects, and dustless keepsakes, mainly old school photos and trophies, spoke of his usual order and tight control. Panicked, she racked her brain for any suspect phone messages she may have missed but couldn’t recall a thing. Hopelessly she settled into the soft embraces of the lounge and prepared for the worst.
The Doctor meanwhile had been busily arranging some notes he had kept on his desk. Looking over periodically to Mrs Austen, he took a sadistic pleasure in her obvious attempts at trying to deduce this current crisis. He deliberately lingered over an old phone message as her eyes frantically looked around the room, much like a baby deer trapped in a hunting trip, before discarding it and sitting opposite her in the stiffer wing back chair. Eyes downcast, he pondered his opening remark.
“Seventy-seven,” he expounded, almost joyfully.
“Pardon, I didn’t understand that.”
“Seventy-seven.”
“I still don’t quite understand,” she stammered.
“Seventy-seven… seventy-seven… you know, the number.”
“What about it sir?”
“What do you mean?”
“What exactly about the number, seventy-seven, is troubling you?”
“Why do you think it troubles me? Did I tell you it troubles me?”
“Well, just your behaviour this morning…”
“What about my behaviour?”
“It just seems that you were upset over…”
“Upset would be a strong word.”
“Unhappy then but all the same…”
“So you think that I’m upset, no unhappy, about the number seventy-seven.”
“Well, I don’t know sir as you seem…”
“Unhappy?”
“No, displeased with something and I can’t for the life of me think what it might be.”
The Doctor settled back. He loved Mrs Austen for just this quality: helpless helpfulness. For years he had found it a frustration, often exasperating him at times of crisis but he had recently learnt to embrace this and often now used it as a bit of sport, as they used to say. Today she was being the perfect victim: expertly set up by his behaviour this morning and hopeless in her ability to discern any useful facts. Surveying his victim under the guise of the troubled boss, he revelled in the small beads of sweat that had formed on her perfectly made up brow. He watched as they rolled down and she tried, in vain, to discreetly dab them with her ever present ladies handkerchief.
“Do you think seventy-seven is a good number?” he began again, deliberately calm, almost cool.
“Well, it depends…” she let her words trail off.
“On what?”
“How you measure it?”
“Go on then, explain what you mean by ‘how you measure it?’”
“For instance, if it’s a score out of say one hundred it wouldn’t be bad. Bot good but…”
“As a percentage then.”
“Yes.”
“Quite true but my number seventy-seven is not a percentage or score out of one hundred. More to the point, why would a ‘not bad’ score make me as you say upset, no unhappy or displeased?”
“On the other hand, if it was a ranking then seventy-seven could be disappointing.”
“Indeed, well done! My number seventy-seven is in fact a ranking. Can you guess for what?”
“Oh… I couldn’t possibly guess.”
“Why don’t you look again at the newspaper you were so desperately scanning before?”
Mrs Austen took her eyes of the Doctor and focused on the newspaper. This time she read each headlines carefully, all the while trying to sense whether this was a trap or some sort. Meanwhile the Doctor looked on, occasionally sipping on his tea or nibbling at his biscuits.
After a few minutes, in which Mrs Austen had carefully read each news story in full just in case his point was more subtle, she looked up. The Doctor could see the cogs in her head formulating her response, couching her blows in the powder-puff of platitudes she held in reserve for such occasions.
“It’s the school HSC ranking, isn’t it?” she ventured.
“Correct again. What about these do you think displeases me, as you so expertly put it?”
“Our rank was seventy-seven.”
“Ah-ha,” he exploded. Banging down his tea cup, spilling the brown liquid over the lip and into the shallow saucer, he got up and started to pace about the room.
“And what exactly do you think that means for me?” he continued.
“For you…”
“Yes, me. The one the board holds responsible for EVERY failure or poor performance these numbskulls produce.”
“I’m sure they don’t personally…”
“Don’t personally blame me. Well, do they want to see all those idiot seniors who performed so badly next week at an emergency board meeting? Do they?”
“I wasn’t aware…”
“Of course you weren’t because they bypassed the usual channels to personally inform me of their little emergency board meeting.”
“But surely Robert…”
“Robert, oh our supposed head of English, might take the fall.”
“Yes. He is…”
“Well. I’ll give you credit for at least spotting our weakness. No, Robert can’t be the scapegoat this time because of the recent school certificate results.”
“But HSC must take precedence…”
“Take precedence indeed. But then again, why wasn’t I on top of the situation in the first place?”
“You can’t be responsible for everything. They must see that clearly. There are certain things that others must take responsibility for.”
“Yes and who’s responsible for the poor school certificate results in computing or the discipline issues on the junior campus or the ratbags who make up year eleven or the other litany of problems that have arisen thus year.
“I don’t know.”
The Doctor slumped back down in his chair and began to dab at the spilled tea, diligently rubbing the messy brown stains that had formed on the cup and saucer. The colour of his cheeks began to fade as he tucked in his dishevelled shirt and readjusted his tie. Mrs Austen meanwhile remained seated, eyes down, sipping her now cold tea in a vain attempt to blend into the lounge.
After a while she looked up to see the Doctor, head in hands, slowly massaging his temples. His frame while calm, had visibly withdrawn and he now seemed like a main retreating into himself, forming a cocoon of protection from a predatory world. Slowly, she gathered up the cups, sauces and half finished biscuits then exited the room. As she closed the door, the Doctor walked over to the office window and stood staring into space.
Cleaning up the cups and sauces, Mrs Austen heard her phone ring and rushed over to answer. On the line was a disgruntled parent concerned over the schools performance, she settled in for a long day.
And everyone knew it.
Mrs Austen, who often lamented being stuck in her cubby hole, was for once thankful of her isolation. The Doctor had spent all morning tramping around his office, curtly dealing with the daily business of the school and anyone who got in his way.
At about tea time, when she was expected to appear with a fresh cup of Lipton’s and a tray of Scotch fingers, she emerged timidly from her desk and began preparations for her dreaded duty. As usual, she dipped his tea bag slowly in and out of the cup he used, watching cautiously lest any tea slip over and stain the fine bone china. Finally, she expertly extracted all the non-broken biscuits from the packet, the few spare not already grabbed by the other staff, and arranged them cautiously on the plate. Taking a deep breath and looking hopefully for one last distraction, she began her mission.
Rapping lightly on the door, Mrs Austen had to steady the tea tray as her hands shook slightly. While she had seen him in a temper, over troublesome staff or an enraged board director, she usually had some idea of what ailed him. However, today she had no idea and it was not knowing, and more importantly being expected to know, that frightened her the most. She awaited his reply.
“Who is it?” the Doctor barked.
“Your morning tea sir.”
Silence.
“If you like, I can come back later,” she reiterated in a slightly softer tone, hope springing in her that perhaps a break from his morning ritual may spare her this time. This was followed by a shuffle of papers and she heard him pad towards the door. Bracing herself, she put on a forced smile and consciously relaxed her shoulders as he opened the door with military precision. Indicating that she should join him for tea, he held the door for her as she entered.
Making her way carefully over to the leather couch, she noticed that the morning paper lay open on page two. What struck her as unusual was that he often finished with the papers by nine, another of his daily rituals, and returned it to be perused by guests and his staff. As he turned around she desperately scanned the pages for a clue to his discontent but no headline cried out either the school’s name or trashed private school funding.
Lowering herself into the soft leather couch, always a challenge when trying to balance his fine china, she searched the room for some other clue to his mood but the office yielded nothing. His immaculately arranged shelves, alphabetical by subjects, and dustless keepsakes, mainly old school photos and trophies, spoke of his usual order and tight control. Panicked, she racked her brain for any suspect phone messages she may have missed but couldn’t recall a thing. Hopelessly she settled into the soft embraces of the lounge and prepared for the worst.
The Doctor meanwhile had been busily arranging some notes he had kept on his desk. Looking over periodically to Mrs Austen, he took a sadistic pleasure in her obvious attempts at trying to deduce this current crisis. He deliberately lingered over an old phone message as her eyes frantically looked around the room, much like a baby deer trapped in a hunting trip, before discarding it and sitting opposite her in the stiffer wing back chair. Eyes downcast, he pondered his opening remark.
“Seventy-seven,” he expounded, almost joyfully.
“Pardon, I didn’t understand that.”
“Seventy-seven.”
“I still don’t quite understand,” she stammered.
“Seventy-seven… seventy-seven… you know, the number.”
“What about it sir?”
“What do you mean?”
“What exactly about the number, seventy-seven, is troubling you?”
“Why do you think it troubles me? Did I tell you it troubles me?”
“Well, just your behaviour this morning…”
“What about my behaviour?”
“It just seems that you were upset over…”
“Upset would be a strong word.”
“Unhappy then but all the same…”
“So you think that I’m upset, no unhappy, about the number seventy-seven.”
“Well, I don’t know sir as you seem…”
“Unhappy?”
“No, displeased with something and I can’t for the life of me think what it might be.”
The Doctor settled back. He loved Mrs Austen for just this quality: helpless helpfulness. For years he had found it a frustration, often exasperating him at times of crisis but he had recently learnt to embrace this and often now used it as a bit of sport, as they used to say. Today she was being the perfect victim: expertly set up by his behaviour this morning and hopeless in her ability to discern any useful facts. Surveying his victim under the guise of the troubled boss, he revelled in the small beads of sweat that had formed on her perfectly made up brow. He watched as they rolled down and she tried, in vain, to discreetly dab them with her ever present ladies handkerchief.
“Do you think seventy-seven is a good number?” he began again, deliberately calm, almost cool.
“Well, it depends…” she let her words trail off.
“On what?”
“How you measure it?”
“Go on then, explain what you mean by ‘how you measure it?’”
“For instance, if it’s a score out of say one hundred it wouldn’t be bad. Bot good but…”
“As a percentage then.”
“Yes.”
“Quite true but my number seventy-seven is not a percentage or score out of one hundred. More to the point, why would a ‘not bad’ score make me as you say upset, no unhappy or displeased?”
“On the other hand, if it was a ranking then seventy-seven could be disappointing.”
“Indeed, well done! My number seventy-seven is in fact a ranking. Can you guess for what?”
“Oh… I couldn’t possibly guess.”
“Why don’t you look again at the newspaper you were so desperately scanning before?”
Mrs Austen took her eyes of the Doctor and focused on the newspaper. This time she read each headlines carefully, all the while trying to sense whether this was a trap or some sort. Meanwhile the Doctor looked on, occasionally sipping on his tea or nibbling at his biscuits.
After a few minutes, in which Mrs Austen had carefully read each news story in full just in case his point was more subtle, she looked up. The Doctor could see the cogs in her head formulating her response, couching her blows in the powder-puff of platitudes she held in reserve for such occasions.
“It’s the school HSC ranking, isn’t it?” she ventured.
“Correct again. What about these do you think displeases me, as you so expertly put it?”
“Our rank was seventy-seven.”
“Ah-ha,” he exploded. Banging down his tea cup, spilling the brown liquid over the lip and into the shallow saucer, he got up and started to pace about the room.
“And what exactly do you think that means for me?” he continued.
“For you…”
“Yes, me. The one the board holds responsible for EVERY failure or poor performance these numbskulls produce.”
“I’m sure they don’t personally…”
“Don’t personally blame me. Well, do they want to see all those idiot seniors who performed so badly next week at an emergency board meeting? Do they?”
“I wasn’t aware…”
“Of course you weren’t because they bypassed the usual channels to personally inform me of their little emergency board meeting.”
“But surely Robert…”
“Robert, oh our supposed head of English, might take the fall.”
“Yes. He is…”
“Well. I’ll give you credit for at least spotting our weakness. No, Robert can’t be the scapegoat this time because of the recent school certificate results.”
“But HSC must take precedence…”
“Take precedence indeed. But then again, why wasn’t I on top of the situation in the first place?”
“You can’t be responsible for everything. They must see that clearly. There are certain things that others must take responsibility for.”
“Yes and who’s responsible for the poor school certificate results in computing or the discipline issues on the junior campus or the ratbags who make up year eleven or the other litany of problems that have arisen thus year.
“I don’t know.”
The Doctor slumped back down in his chair and began to dab at the spilled tea, diligently rubbing the messy brown stains that had formed on the cup and saucer. The colour of his cheeks began to fade as he tucked in his dishevelled shirt and readjusted his tie. Mrs Austen meanwhile remained seated, eyes down, sipping her now cold tea in a vain attempt to blend into the lounge.
After a while she looked up to see the Doctor, head in hands, slowly massaging his temples. His frame while calm, had visibly withdrawn and he now seemed like a main retreating into himself, forming a cocoon of protection from a predatory world. Slowly, she gathered up the cups, sauces and half finished biscuits then exited the room. As she closed the door, the Doctor walked over to the office window and stood staring into space.
Cleaning up the cups and sauces, Mrs Austen heard her phone ring and rushed over to answer. On the line was a disgruntled parent concerned over the schools performance, she settled in for a long day.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Still Up in the Air
I’m a little miffed. In fact, I’m quite annoyed at the ending of the new Clooney film Up in the Air.
On a positive note, the overall film was fantastic. It was well paced, humorous and the three main actors did their jobs well. The character of Ryan had a suave sense of detachment with just enough vulnerability to make his failed attempt at attachment believable and heartbreaking. Alex was surprisingly sexy as the love interest while providing an understated class that tied in well with her betrayal. Finally, Miss Keener was perfectly annoying with the exuberance and brashness of youth but still able to eat humble pie and get on with it.
As for the plot, it was well paced and thankfully did not dwell too long on the comedic yet tragic aspects of people dealing with redundancy at the hands of a ruthless, efficient bureaucrat. It coasted along nicely for a recent film and didn’t overstay its welcome by dragging it out too long. Also, the messages of emotion/technology/heartbreak/family were handled in a sophisticated way without undue sentimentality or crude pessimism.
BUT… the ending SUCKED!!!!
For those who want to see the film, you could stop reading now but in truth knowing the end won’t really hurt your enjoyment of the film as a whole.
Anyway, the final scenes in which Ryan realises that his dream life with Alex (who turns out to be married with kids and not the free spirit we take her for) is a sham and thus he returns to his life of the empty backpack (metaphor for material wealth, emotional attachment and human contact) riding the airways DOES NOT WORK.
The main reason for this is simple: Ryan is human. As hard as the film tries to portray his lifestyle as a logically reasonable but ultimately empty, he could not possibly go through the experiences he did and not come out as unscathed as he did. While I appreciate that people return to the norm in times of crises to try and cushion the impact of hurt or deception, the experience itself cannot help but alter that norm in some way. Be that in a major way, such as a change in job/wife/country, or in a small minor way, such as a more cautious approach or altered habit, it is impossible for this to have no impact whatsoever.
Now this is where there is certain to be contention. As the person I went to the movie argued, “it was the look in his eyes that showed you how he had been affected.” Also, he does show some compassion and give his newly married sister some of his frequent flyer miles for their honeymoon. But this is not enough.
For me, I wouldn’t have minded whether he accepted his meaningless existence or broken with that in an attempt to find human contact but he had to make that decision. As the film portrays it, he simply picks the default setting without making a conscious decision one way or the other. Now you may argue that this is okay but every person, at some point, must make the decision to continue in the default setting. Even if they choose to remain unchanged, they must have a clear reason or purpose behind that choice and ultimately, the movie does not make this vital decision clear, reasonable or justified.
So Up in the Air left Ryan and me just that but unlike Ryan I’m not taking it lying down in a first class seat.
On a positive note, the overall film was fantastic. It was well paced, humorous and the three main actors did their jobs well. The character of Ryan had a suave sense of detachment with just enough vulnerability to make his failed attempt at attachment believable and heartbreaking. Alex was surprisingly sexy as the love interest while providing an understated class that tied in well with her betrayal. Finally, Miss Keener was perfectly annoying with the exuberance and brashness of youth but still able to eat humble pie and get on with it.
As for the plot, it was well paced and thankfully did not dwell too long on the comedic yet tragic aspects of people dealing with redundancy at the hands of a ruthless, efficient bureaucrat. It coasted along nicely for a recent film and didn’t overstay its welcome by dragging it out too long. Also, the messages of emotion/technology/heartbreak/family were handled in a sophisticated way without undue sentimentality or crude pessimism.
BUT… the ending SUCKED!!!!
For those who want to see the film, you could stop reading now but in truth knowing the end won’t really hurt your enjoyment of the film as a whole.
Anyway, the final scenes in which Ryan realises that his dream life with Alex (who turns out to be married with kids and not the free spirit we take her for) is a sham and thus he returns to his life of the empty backpack (metaphor for material wealth, emotional attachment and human contact) riding the airways DOES NOT WORK.
The main reason for this is simple: Ryan is human. As hard as the film tries to portray his lifestyle as a logically reasonable but ultimately empty, he could not possibly go through the experiences he did and not come out as unscathed as he did. While I appreciate that people return to the norm in times of crises to try and cushion the impact of hurt or deception, the experience itself cannot help but alter that norm in some way. Be that in a major way, such as a change in job/wife/country, or in a small minor way, such as a more cautious approach or altered habit, it is impossible for this to have no impact whatsoever.
Now this is where there is certain to be contention. As the person I went to the movie argued, “it was the look in his eyes that showed you how he had been affected.” Also, he does show some compassion and give his newly married sister some of his frequent flyer miles for their honeymoon. But this is not enough.
For me, I wouldn’t have minded whether he accepted his meaningless existence or broken with that in an attempt to find human contact but he had to make that decision. As the film portrays it, he simply picks the default setting without making a conscious decision one way or the other. Now you may argue that this is okay but every person, at some point, must make the decision to continue in the default setting. Even if they choose to remain unchanged, they must have a clear reason or purpose behind that choice and ultimately, the movie does not make this vital decision clear, reasonable or justified.
So Up in the Air left Ryan and me just that but unlike Ryan I’m not taking it lying down in a first class seat.
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