mnvnjnsn's Diary

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Look up, look up.

I've been watching Angels in America in the one hour slices they've been feeding to those of us who missed the first three hours on HBO last Sunday. And it's been kicking my ass.

I should have known going in, because the story at its most basic is about AIDS. Not the happiest of topics. But it's not just about that. It's got a surrealness about it that hits me deeper than I would have thought. A lot of the action comes in people's hallucinations and you're never quite sure who is real and who's a figment. The actors all play multiple roles, and they speak in tones and soliloquys steeped with MEANING, as most dialogue in plays are.

And it's these hallucinations that get to me. Some are close to the kinds of dreams I have when I'm having an insulin reaction. The panic and the anger and the weird shit the characters feel and see hit home. And it doesn't help that every actor in this show is perfect and beautiful.

In my brain-cell depleting dreams, I've seen famous people and soft-focus worlds not of this universe. I've flown in space and gotten lost in mazes of stairs. I've killed monsters and family members and strangers wearing funny suits. I've applied for jobs and played in orchestras and had conversations very much like those in this play/mini series. I have woken up with words full of MEANING whispered to me by an angel.

But it wasn't Emma Thompson.

It was, in fact, Ellen Degeneres. And she didn't have wings. I don't know what that means. So much for MEANING.

4:29 p.m. - 2003-12-11


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