Okay,
so there was
a lot of skinny dipping, but still...
I just finished watching the
movie Iris
about the 1950's era British novelist, Iris Murdoch. The
movie splits its tale between Judi Dench's elderly, Alzheimer's
stricken Iris, and Kate Winslet as the college-age Iris with her free
and Protean sexuality. Any prurient hopes I had of hot
girl-on-Kate-Winslet action, however, were quickly dispatched by the
recognition of the profound natural tragedy that befell this remarkable
person and the depths of love and commitment it exposed within her
husband of 30 years, John Bayley, from whose memoirs the movie was
adapted.
I do feel the film shorted us somewhat in
its depiction of the health, lucid Iris. Save for a few
brief, though remarkably eloquent public speaking scenes, we mostly see
her as she quite precipitously fades into Alzheimer's abyss.
Much of Dench's portrayal necessarily consists of puttering and
muttering aimlessly throughout a house which, in tandem with her mind,
grows increasingly cramped, cluttered and unlivable. Even so,
the film is less about Iris' descent into dementia than the evolution
of her husband's relationship with her, from foremost admirer and life-partner
to her complete, if often massively inadequate, caregiver.
Though
it was heart wrenching to watch and had me doubting my own devotional
resolve if ever in a similar situation, I was left wanting more
– much more – of the intelligent, original,
free-thinking woman who wrote 26 novels. But
I suppose this may have been by design. I'll just go out and
find that Iris in her books.
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