Joe R and I walked into Alice Tully Hall last night and I spotted him right away, on a balcony entrance above us: Damien Echols, surveying the scene. Right there, in a sharp black shirt and blue Bono shades — just right there! I gave Joe the "fame ahoy" arm-whap and pointed up. Then I stopped in the middle of the swirl of ticket-holders and looked at Damien like you look at a rainbow. I wanted to take a picture, but I knew I wouldn't need one. Damien, rocking civilian hair product and the tattoo he just got, a real one, not sausage grease and ballpoint ink. Just…right there. Unbelievable.

The movie itself is about what you expect, if you've seen either of the other Paradise Lost films or followed the case, and as such, it's almost beside the point. I would almost rather have seen the version the filmmakers had nearly in the can before the Alford plea — the ending to the story that WM3 supporters had feared, the end of the line — to see what got changed, and how they shaped a narrative that, essentially, still hadn't changed at that point. And then I would like to see, in two years' time, PL 4: Mixed Blessings, and see their lives, their workaday average lives, lizard-brain driving around on errands, dealing with customer-service phone menus and pesty housepets, their bafflement at the whole Twilight thing, just right here alongside the rest of us. The moment when "Anyone else want another beer?" happens without thinking.

Because it isn't a movie; it's their lives. I loved going to that showing, getting to sit there with them, in the same row as Devil's Knot author Mara Leveritt, right in front of defense attorney Don Horgan (Joe R does not mess around with the seat-picking, folks). I loved giving them a standing ovation at the end as they waved from the balcony, all three of them, just right there. My "Free the West Memphis Three" t-shirt is laundered as soft as chenille by now, and I can't tell you how wonderful to see the Three in street clothes. And how wonderful that a bunch of people got together to right a wrong, and didn't give up for a very long time. The charismatically weird, and now deeply congenial, John Mark Byers makes a reference in PL3 to something he read "on that internet," which is a quintessential Byers locution guaranteed to make a 9600-baud veteran like myself chuckle, but WM3.org rolled a huge boulder up the same hill many many times, and good for them. Twitter had the best info about the news feeds the day of the plea; Mr. Stupidhead and I sat riveted to my laptop during the press conferences. "That internet" can do great things.

But it can't do everything, and the "Purgatory" in the film's title still pertains. In response to a question about what went through his mind when sentence was pronounced, Damien — in a tone suggesting tears, or suppressed fury, or both — said that it's impossible to describe to anyone who hasn't gone through it, that we could never imagine. This isn't entirely true; we can imagine. On top of feeling physically uncomfortable (side effects of Damien's prolonged solitary confinement include arthritis, vitamin deficiencies, and shot eyesight), he's living with his wife for the first time. He's learning adult life for the first time. He's dealing with technologies that have reached their third or fourth generation since he went inside. The pressure of living with a death sentence has lifted, but as a result, now he's floating, untethered, except perhaps by the weight of the expectations of millions of strangers — bloggers, famous musicians and actors, donors, advocates, all invested in his life and sure of its worth. Maybe he doesn't feel that those who helped save his life now lay claim to it, but it's how I'd feel. "Every gift has its price," my grandmother used to say, and I'd feel that, too.

The movie is playing festivals for a few more weeks, I believe, before it comes to HBO in January, and as a movie, sure, I'd recommend it. It's still a great story, as painful and maddening and rich as ever. But the credits haven't rolled on it for the Three; the killer remains at large. The time is gone. I enjoyed welcoming them back, but as happy endings go, this may have neither. Best of luck, friends.

I had a hotel room reserved, near Williamsport. It seemed prudent. I wanted to get home, but not to push too hard. The little wrench that appears on the dashboard when it's time to bring the car in for service had appeared for the first time the day before; today it got more insistent. Hard to say what she needed — more synthetic oil, perhaps, or just a nice long sit. The hills swelled up again closer to the Pennsylvania border, and I started thinking, I could make New York today, right? It's only another three hours? Let's see how it goes?

I didn't need to see. I already knew. It was the "2:45 on Friday afternoon" phase; nothing to do but do it. In Vermilion, pulling into a rest stop under heavy, juicy clouds, I took a moment to gather myself for the sprint for cover. One row over and seven cars down, another Campbell, tomato red with gray trim, covered in armed-forces stickers. Beside me on the left, a minivan full of Amish and their English driver; everyone in the car, the driver included, threw his shoes out of the car to put them on. A little boy in his stiff town shirt and too-big black pants watched me carefully as I collected my things, following the bird inked on my wrist. I smiled. He winked solemnly.

Back into the hills. I don't mind Pennsylvania's I-80 terribly much (not compared to I-76, which I loathe out of proportion), and on a weekday, your fellow drivers settle into it quickly, trucks climbing patiently on the right, everyone else filing respectfully past on the left. Weekends can get stupid — you can tell the people who didn't think to sort out the wipers on the rental back in the city, herking about in the left lane and ignoring the queue of pros gritting their teeth behind them — but Monday was all business, 70 mph and best wishes for trooper-free living. Rain came and went, construction came and went, and then my hotel's exit came and went, and I let Annie suggest U-turns or alternate state roads for a few minutes, to make sure I was sure, before tapping her screen: set directions / type destination / select from list / starred home.

Dry roads in the eastern half of the state, and then a junction that seemed familiar, like I'd dreamed it, perhaps — a tube of trees overhead that created a pensive gloom, then opened out for signs to the I-380 junction. …Of course it was familiar; I used to ride through it from the 380 side half a dozen times a year, coming down from Toronto. I've seen it in the snow, in the starlight, in the middle of a speakerphone convo about movie science. It's about half an hour, forty minutes to the Water Gap, and about two hours to Brooklyn. I didn't need Annie even a little, because I've done this drill dozens of times: coffee and gas-up past the junction where you can still pump it yourself, shoot the Gap, one last pee in Mt. Holly, then hang on to your axles for the 280 jump-in through Kearny. I left Annie on anyway; you have to respect your veteran players.

"One more state, Cam," I said in a WaWa parking lot, firing her up for the homestretch, and if you've ever talked shit about Jersey drivers without actually becoming one for yourself for an hour or two, may I recommend Jersey 80 at twilight on a weekday? Try to get a V6 engine (no offense, Cam). Mount a camera on your dash and set it for periodic horizon shots, then stand on the gas and swoop up and down the boomerang hills, out of the Gap to Eisenhower Parkway. Five whole lanes to choose from, so you can show off at 85 or putter at 60, and when the hills break and show you the city, it's the best of everything.

Or it's merely nice, or not unpleasant, or you've got a Parkway section you feel that way about instead. Sure you do. That's yours. Mine is this. This is the light left on for me.

I hadn't expected Chris Christie to switch it on of all people, but after a decade of rattling over 280 in Harrison spitting out fillings through that horrendously short Turnpike merge, NJ-DOT had fixed almost everything. The pavement was like glass; the merge lane seemed longer. "About goddamn time," I said, and then I said, "You know we're probably going to pay for that remark," and sure enough, on the Turnpike feeder ramp, an Appalachian cavern worthy of a horror movie. Crunch!

"Jesus. You all right?"
"[Krch…fffrrrrrrr.]"
"Well, if you want to break down again, I'm with that — we can see the house from here."

The Goethals was the emptiest I'd ever seen it, maybe ten other cars going to the Isle of Staten. The BQE was more bunged than usual with a lane cut off near the Verrazano, but with nobody around, that was interesting instead of maddening — and the dipshit with the souped-up Hyundai who rode up my dupa so far I couldn't see his headlights was a welcome home of sorts. Everything was. NYPD eating crullers in the Lily Pond turnout, All-HVAC vans with the game blasting, the stern Verrazano itself.

Brooklyn. A little fog; a lot of double-parking.

"Your destination will be on the riiiiight."
"Thanks, Annie."
"Your destination is on the riiiiight."

Thanks, Campbell.

I sat for a moment in the Hollywood parking spot right in front of Far Thill, just big enough for a little Smartie, and rested my forehead on the wheel. Then I got out and went into our front yard and capered around in front of the window until Mr. S and Gen looked up, and when they did, then I was home.

I began the day in a mood of grim exhilaration: the route promised the most daunting driving yet. The locals have accustomed themselves to it, no doubt, and developed methods of timing their drives and breaks and fill-ups. My frame of reference is a trip from my adolescence, and on that trip, I concerned myself primarily (and intensely) with confining Mr. Stupidhead to his side of the back; let Dad contemplate the prospect of the fam ten miles from Tumbleweed Heights, huddled in the meager trunk shade of a rented Town Car, hydrating with a single box of grape Ssips!. I would hide in a Bill James Abstract until California, thanks anyway.

Nowhere to hide today. The map was terrifying on the subject: Wyoming; Salt Lake City; beige areas reserved for the armed forces and their tests of unpredictable weaponry, and nothing else. I zoomed the area on MapQuest, and again, and again, and I got two towns, and no guarantee either would have gas. Wendover and grab my ankles.

But how wonderful that there's a place with nothing. Well, not "nothing," of course. It's stunning to see; I said "wow" all day, and sometimes I had to take a breath in the middle of it to get the whole "wow" done. "Wooo-aaaaaa-oooo-[hihhh]-oooow." Driving out of Wyoming, around the Uinta Mountains and into a notch in the Wasatch Range, down into Salt Lake City, is not "nothing." It is white knuckles in a few spots, for starters, and then, in its way, it explains everything, like why the Mormons hung in with it, for one. I had always found that completely inexplicable, especially after Missouri — the guy maybe has good intentions, but he is going to get most of you killed, and there's nothing to drink! Quit on it already! God will forgive you; God has used deserts as punishments since He was in short pants, so let's assume He gets it. Sit-down strike — tell a friend and/or horse. Come on.

I couldn't imagine what they must have seen, back then. The delicious mirages shimmering away into the foothills, yes; the wind farms that, from a distance, look like a heavenly citadel, probably not. The vastness, the relentlessness of the landscape must have proven something to them, though, about what made the land and why it made it this way. Coming out one side of the Bonneville Salt Flats will make you believe in something — Jesus Christ, diet Coke, Amtrak, humidity, call it.

I knew what the May 2011 Judgment Day billboard had believed — that they didn't need to save enough money aside to have it taken down after, say, June 15.

One rest stop, I think still in Wyoming, must have dated back to the original build of the Eisenhower system, when people were shorter — or more pervy — because the stall partitions were only chest-high. Coming into the room and seeing only the heads, I started giggling; nobody else thought it was funny. Really? That "Dilbert"-y cube-farm prairie-dog effect in a highway restroom? …Okay then.

Delle, UT. The last services for 66 miles. The sun was making its quota. Past the parking lot — not so much a lot as a paved area that the desert is coming up around at the corners — kids on ATVs surfed the sand. The woman at the register could have sworn I came in already today. Not another big blonde with short hair? "No no — I'm sure it was you! Or your twin!" I don't have a twin. "It was your secret twin, then." Oh, you believe in that too? "Everybody got one." I agree. I've seen mine — my junior-year math teacher's niece — and she's probably not blonde now, or driving across the country by herself, but you never can tell.

In the Flats, a towel sari'd over me because mere Hawaiian Tropic is no match for a Utah sun, I entered a sort of trance. "Ahead" never quite came. Squiggling pool after squiggling pool squirmed away to each side. I didn't turn the wheel or touch it in any meaningful way for 45 minutes. The scorched landscape and the hum of the engine cleaned my mind.

Then came a slight bend, and then a mild rise, and then Wendover, and what should snap me to (besides having to pee) but a usage error! I will not name this perpetrator either, because I love him on the internet and on podcasts and he is a brilliant writer, and he is not the only one who mangles the expression into "mano Y mano," but that is not the expression. It is not "hand AND hand." It is "mano A mano." Hand TO hand. You are welcome.

Elko. The sun had dropped a bit and a ribbon of cool curled through the window now and then. I went down for an early dinner, another weird pasta (carrots and potatoes? in a primavera?), and a couple of glasses of beer, the first of which I drained in two gulps, because it was that kind of weather and that kind of day. At the next table, a ten-year-old read about a man-sized portion of something he wanted on the menu, but worried, "I'm a boy, I'm not a man." Then he asked what tiramisu is, and I wanted to call over that it's proof that God cares about our happiness, but I kept it shut instead. What did neighboring tables think of us, 25 years ago, playing the "Can You Get Mom To Look At This Ordinary French Fry" game? (Try it; it's pretty fun. After a few days, you will have to resort to shit like grabbing your eye and writhing around in your chair all "MOM MOM OW HELP ME," then holding up the fry with the other hand and adding, "…to LOOK at this FRENCH FRY!") (Understand: cars did not always have DVD players in them. We did what we had to do.)

I sat in the parking lot and enjoyed wearing a sweater in the sunset and talking to AB Chao. Elko is of a certain size, with many lofty signs that call to travelers, and when the darkness began, the yellow rounded M was the first one to go on.

Today's write-ups by Sarah D. Bunting. Confused? Click here. Don't know the ingredients? Google, baby.

1 Martini / Gibson vs. 16 Pink Lady. I used to have a boyfriend who refused to eat potato salad because it had too many white things in it all together. The potato and the egg and the onion…he couldn't deal with it. Everyone has their weird food whatevers, but I never understood that one until reading the ingredients in a Pink Lady. Cream and egg white? And grenadine? The drink looks delicious and chic on those diner placemats, and hat tip to the Pink Ladies in Grease, but the recipe is gnarly, and even if it sounded okay, oh my God I love a dirty vodka Gibson so much. I don't drink martinis often — it's, like, twice a year — but it's a classic drink, and it is so elegant just to look at, the angles of the glass and the toothpick and the round olives or onions. Put on a dark red lipstick, get a half dozen oysters to go with, and you feel like a real big shot. It's not just a drink; it's a costume, kind of. A story waiting to happen. ["I concur. A martini -- gin is my preferred kick -- is pure and clean. Pink Lady is the exact opposite, all unnecessary frills and pouff." -- Keckler]

That story sometimes takes the form of an instructional manual on how to get fucked up fast on a hot day, but no matter what the weather, the Pink Lady is getting fucked up for real. Martini/Gibson by a landslide.

8 Lemon Drop vs. 9 Mimosa. I didn't know the Lemon Drop came in proper grown-up cocktail form. I've always known it as a shot, and it is that shot, and its 14 brethren, that inspired me to test my heterosexuality by making out with a lady in the bathroom of a Gramercy dive "for science." Maybe it wasn't the Lemon Drops — she had very shiny hair — but that is one delicious drink. ["Did you make out with Buffy Summers's sister or something?" -- Keckler] So is the Mimosa, though, and it's a brunch standard; it's probably considered classier than the Drop, or at the very least less likely to lead to Darwin-Awardian adventures at the Groggy Beaver or whatever the hell that shithole was called. As we've noted before, though, some people loathe champers, so I don't know what wins. Probably the Mimosa.

5 Pina Colada vs. 12 Mai Tai. I loved a Colada back in the day, and if you can only order one drink at the float-up bar in your hotel pool that has rapids in it, it's obviously that one. But I find them too sweet now, and given a choice, I'd probably go with a Mai Tai — or, as Mr. Stupidhead called it when ordering one at a float-up bar at age 15, a "Tai Mai." He got it, too, little bastard. I think it's a closer race than the rankings suggest, with Coladas prevailing in the end.

4 Pimm's Cup vs. 13 Mint Julep. I love bourbon; I love most "muddle" drinks; I don't like juleps at all. They've got a spoiled-toothpaste thing going on, and the aftertaste is just icky. ["The first time I ordered a Mint Julep, I wasn't expecting something so…rubbing-alcohol-tasting. Now, I've grown to love them. But not more than Pimm's. After all, I am that kind of annoying Anglophiliac." -- Keckler] Sorry, Kentucky Derby — it's Pimm's Cup all the way. I had a Cup with blackberries subbed in once and I nearly fainted from joy; I just love them. Pimm's for the win.

6 Long Island Iced Tea vs. 11 Kir Royale. I've never quaffed an LIT that wasn't a dog's breakfast of whatever cheap booze we had left over from a college formal, dumped into a plastic pitcher with a squirt of flat Pepsi on top and downed for the sole purpose of getting drunk in a hurry. I've never had a well-mixed one, and even if I had, I'd prefer the Kir — but it's an acquired taste and doesn't have much staying power (i.e., one's usually enough). This one belongs to the Guyland.

3 Manhattan vs. 14 Old-Fashioned. Both drinks my dad orders all the time, but modded with bourbon. I like Old-Fashioneds okay, though it depends on the mix, and while a good one is really good, alternating sweet notes and starchier ones, a bad one is just sticky and kind of rancid. (The maraschino is a harsh master.) But a bourbon Manhattan is truly heavenly, and happily it's very tough to fuck it up. Not a huge difference between these drinks, really, but Manhattan wins.

7 Irish Coffee vs. 10 Margarita. Another hot-weather/cold-weather choice — sorry! — but for me it's an easy one. Unlike my esteemed colleague, I have no use for hot booze; my idea of a "toddy" is a shot of applejack with a tea chaser. It's just not my thing. Regardless of season, I prefer margaritae, especially the classic salted-rocks-highball verzh. I don't remember why we ranked it as low as we did, but we'll live to regret it, I think. ["My excuse for any and all mistakes in this bracket is: 'We were drunk.' 'But Keckler, it was 10:30 in the morning!' 'Shut up, Bunting!' We were drunk." -- Keckler] Margarita wins easily.

2 Mojito vs. 15 Kamikaze. I have never, not once, seen or heard anyone order, or drink, a Kamikaze since I graduated from college. Then again, in college, we didn't drink Kamikazes, so much. We reclined in Barcaloungers while fratty bubelatties poured the ingredients directly into our faceholes and yelled, "KAMIKAZEEEEEEEEEEEE!" We survived Kamikazes. That said, they sound…kind of good! I don't love the aftertaste notes of vodka and Triple Sec separately, so together, it could get barfy, but I might try one soon and see how it goes — if only to commemorate the Kamikaze's short stay in the NC Double Shot, because the Mojito is going to flatten it, and rightly so.

Editing and VO by Dave Bunting. Music by Rossini, compliments of the Grimethorpe Colliery Band. Waiting For Superman by Davis Guggenheim. "Save The Day" graphic by Dave Puketza.

Heroism by y'all.

$250,000. Road trip. Let's do this thing.

Touched to the heart, Mrs. March could only stretch out her arms as if to gather children and grandchildren to herself, and say, with face and voice full of motherly love, gratitude, and humility:

"O my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a greater happiness than this!"

Than…what, Marmee? Your surviving daughters' children not dying of hoof-and-mouth disease? I know it's the 1870s and I don't mean that nobody can possibly find child-rearing fulfilling, but what a comedown for Jo loyalists, seriously. She cut all her hair off and sold a story, but only because she had to, folks! Don't worry, she's not one of those…bluestockings!

…So! I could have given folks the usual 2-3 weeks to buy and read the book, but I have a feeling that anyone who wants to participate in this one already owns it, or has read it enough times to punt — and avoiding spoilers is a fool's errand at this point. (Beth dies. It's sad. Amy doesn't; also sad.)

We've already done some crabbing about the Marches here, but that mostly focused on Amy. Now's your chance to kvetch about Jo getting saddled with Bhaer; Meg's near-constant whining; Beth still playing with dolls at the age of 14; the incessant poor-mouthing when the Marches employ a full-time servant (and Alcott falls rather flat with the rendition of said servant's dialect); and, if you feel very strongly, any of the other Alcott books concerning Clan March (i.e., Little Men and Jo's Boys). You can say good things, too, don't get me wrong. (Free Laurie's grandfather!)

You may also discuss the movie adaptations (my hunt for a DVD copy of the BBC adaptation from the late '70s continues), biographical and/or scholarly insights into Alcott, why on earth anyone would make a big deal over pickled limes or lobster salad, or whatever ancillary materials you like.

In the meantime, I leave you with this horseshit:

As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently: "My dear, don't let the sun go down upon your anger. Forgive each other, help each other, and begin again tomorrow."

This is Marmee's purpose in the text, I realize, but as aggrieved as I felt daily by my own, er, "Amos," Mr. Stupidhead, I knew our mother would never have sold me out like that if he'd burned up my stuff. If anything, she'd have asked me nicely not to kill Mr. S until my dad got home and could say goodbye, but then again, Mr. S would never have done anything that dicky.

Death Race 33, Sarah 23; 2 of 24 categories completed

I wish I'd seen it in the theater; The Wolfman isn't quite campy enough to work, but in a few scenes, it's close, and a Friday-night Brooklyn crowd would have gone a long way towards getting an overly self-serious gorefest out of its own way. And it is gore-ree: heads torn off, claws going through soft palates, the disarticulated arm of a posse member hurled out of a trap and firing the handgun its hand is still clinging to. The CGI isn't terribly good — the wolf creature appears weightless in most of its long shots, like a Colorform — but the makeup, for which the movie's nominated, is effective, and whoever had charge of all the bloody stumps really did a great job, because: gross.

But, while the not-goodness took a slightly different form from that I'd expected, it's still not good. Why did we need two Oscar-winners for what's essentially a creature feature? The one whose character is written with any surprises (Anthony Hopkins) is phoning it in; the other (Benicio Del Toro) appears to think he's in a different movie, and the resulting effect is that of Keanu in Bram Stoker's Dracula. Hugo Weaving and Emily Blunt bring nuance to the proceedings (and there's a little Easter egg for true-crime nuts in Weaving's character), but again, you have to wonder why they bothered in a film whose climactic brawl is reminiscent of the Veruca era of Buffy. And not, needless to say, in a good way.

With just under three weeks to go, I've seen 23 of the 56 nominated films and completed just two categories: Adapted Screenplay, and Sound Editing. (…?) Elsewhere in Far Thill, Gen is at 17 (but, with a week off between jobs, looking to put on a burst of productivity) and Mr. Stupidhead is at 16. The Let's Get This Over With Family Movie Revue will probably run a split squad tonight with Stupidhaus watching The Town and Sarah watching Iron Man 2.

How you doin'?

Death Race 38, Sarah 18; 1 of 24 categories completed

We decided to side with it early on, when we heard Jay Baruchel's voice, and after the "…Astrid [choir of angels / slo-mo]" moment, but all three of us climbed into the tank for How to Train Your Dragon the minute it became clear that the filmmaking team had based most of the dragons' movements and behaviors on cats. When the little one curled up next to Hiccup and started purring, Mr. S wailed, "FINE, movie, WE LOVE YOU, now QUIT IT." And: seriously. A catlike creature named "Toothless"? I have one of those!

We only had one teeny quibble, that it's not entirely clear what the relationship is between the regular dragons and the queen/dictator dragon, but calling it a quibble isn't really accurate, because in the end we didn't give a shit. Stoick approaching Toothless on that rocky jetty, with the clouds of battle hanging over him…man, that scene's a killer. Several of the chase sequences feel real enough that I had to watch through my fingers, which put me in mind of The Incredibles, and the animation is gorgeous; DreamWorks is really bringing it. (We're also obsessed with the illustrations in the dragon manual. Do those come from the original book?)

But can it beat Toy Story 3? Well, it's a solid movie that stands alone, and doesn't depend on its audience having loved its characters for well over a decade — but I think TS3 still works just as well for people new to the franchise, has just as nail-biting a thriller sequence, and reduced me to a sobbing mess at the end. I think Best Animated Feature is TS3's to lose, which is too bad, because H2TYD is damn good.

Original Score, though: maybe. It's a sweet score with a light touch, and it does lots of different things. That said, I liked Social Network's score a bit better. So, not sure Dragon wins any Oscars, but it's a completely worthwhile watch.

See my comments on last year's nominated iteration of the franchise. It has a few nice moments, but feels a little slower than the last one, and the acting is quite poor in spots. It's up for Art Direction this time, which I suspect it won't win. Whatever, it's watched.

I've also seen Black Swan finally (review pending), so with four weeks to go, I've seen 16 out of 56 films and completed a single category. The rest of Far Thill is holding its own, with Gen at 13 films and Mr. S at 11; tonight's Let's Get This Over With Family Movie Revue will probably feature How To Train Your Dragon.

Death Race 45, Sarah 11; 1 of 24 categories completed

When "Blue Valentine" ended, I knew [Derek] Cianfrance had directed his actors, but I wasn't sure he'd done the hard work of writing (he's the cowriter).

Without that, "Blue Valentine" stands as a workshopped piece that looks for truth in the "reality" of the performances, and [Michelle] Williams is getting no end of praise for her work.

Give her credit — she's cinema's leading avatar of solemn meditations on failed lives. But I think Williams, who is lovely and loved by the camera, should now move on from roles that require unwashed hair, abject sorrow and grief at the loss of her favorite dog (see "Wendy and Lucy").

I didn't feel as impatient with Blue Valentine as Gary Thompson seems to, but I agree with his points here: as a story, it's overworked, too concerned that we really get it. Several critics, Thompson included, have complained that we only get the beginning and the end of the story of this dying relationship between Cindy (Williams) and Dean (Ryan Gosling, looking disconcertingly like Jason Lee in the present-day scenes), that the narrative doesn't tell us where it all went wrong, but as Roger Ebert points out, you never really know that anyway, and the back-and-forth cuts serve the story well; the script just needs to back off the signifiers a bit (the Future Room at the love motel; Dean thrashing through the weeds looking for his wedding band) and let the actors work.

The acting is as good as you've heard. Williams puts over in one bitten lip that moment at the end of the affair when the only thing that makes your skin crawl worse than his touch is the idea that he might sense that. She's equally good in the flashback scenes, conveying that new-love bubble in which you don't just adore everything about him, but about Us, the two of you together, the story you have now made.

Of course, from outside the bubble, we can see that the story they make together will end badly, that what they need from one another has nothing to do with them as people, and everything to do with idealizations and opposites, escapes. Here, the film wisely stands back and doesn't push, letting the situation and the actors do the work.

But Thompson has a point about Williams: we have seen this performance before, several times. It's good, and it's genuine, but it's not a departure, and I wouldn't mind seeing her do something funny — or at least take a role in which swallowed disappointments don't feature quite so prominently in the performance.

Literally minutes after finishing Blue Valentine, I went downstairs to watch 127 Hours with Gen and Mr. Stupidhead, an experience we'd decided to share because we couldn't face watching James Franco cutting his arm off each by ourselves. Because we all already knew that Franco's Aron Ralston cuts his arm off (spoiler: he cuts his arm off), we had to dissipate the wretched tension of the impending arm-off-cutting with a near-continuous series of jokes addressed to the screen. "Yeah, the chyron says it's only Monday, but you should probably just go ahead and cut your arm off." "Hacking at the boulder? Pretty good idea. Better idea? Cutting your arm off." "You know what I always say — when life gives you lemons, cut your arm off." One of us may have wondered aloud about a possible sequel, in which he finally cuts his arm off, but the rock proceeds to drop straight down…onto his foot. That someone's sibling may have suggested 128 Hours: Could Someone Please Get This Library Bookshelf Off My Cock Kthxbai.

Then, after 80 minutes of tricksy split-screens, visions of Ralston's future child, reverse-shot dream sequences, and other vain directorial attempts to delay the inevitable, Ralston finally cut his goddamn arm off. It's not actually that bad, that scene, except that you've built it up so far in your mind that you can barely take it, but to my mind, the part where he has to drink his own urine to survive is more disgusting.

Ralston is a real person, and I don't mean to diminish his experiences when I say this, obviously; the story probably made an excellent book. On film, though, it's that one big gimmick, ushered in by a series of smaller gimmicks designed to pass the time until the amputation scene. Danny Boyle would use all those hectic directorial flourishes anyway — it's what he does — but the fact that no director would have much choice given the narrative suggests that the film is flawed in its inception. Boyle tries heroically to create an arc, a traditional three-act movie, but it's not really possible. There's only one act that counts: he cuts his arm off.

And while Franco is very good as Ralston, Ralston as scripted is something of a problem. Initially, he shows no pain, no shock, no fear; his engineer's approach to the problem, and all the ancillary problems, is interesting at first, but as time goes on and the only emotional response we see is a pappy lesson on appreciating your life, it becomes somewhat unnerving. A big part of a story like Ralston's is the speculation it prompts in its audience: What would we do? How would we get out? Could we cut our own arms off, and if we could, would we know what to do after that? Ralston's in physical pain, but doesn't appear to doubt himself much, and when he tells himself not to lose it, we don't buy it, because he's betrayed no sign of losing it. Damp-eyed, frustrated, dehydrated, sure. Meltdown, no.

I can't say that it's a bad movie, although the denouement's pacing and scoring is weird and lets most of the air out; it's just that, again, it doesn't work as a movie. I can tell you that, if you have it on your Oscar-season list but don't think you can get through That Scene, 1) it's not as bad as you've heard, and 2) it's not nominated for that, so if you get to that point and just…can't, step into the lobby or fast-forward. You'll have a good enough idea of Franco's performance and of the script by that time.

Speaking of scripts, I've now completed the Adapted Screenplay category. It's a weird one — anyone want to explain what Toy Story 3 is doing in there? Don't get me wrong, I may have liked that writing the best of all the nominees; I just don't know what it's adapted from. In any case, 127 Hours is the weakest of the group; I'd have no problem with any of the others winning, and bet that this is where True Grit picks up its hardware.