So far, I think my main stumbling block to watching “The Fundamentals of Caring” in the proper spirit is that it’s not 1994. Both because democracy was not on artificial life support, and because I’m not a foolishly optimistic college student carrying an extra ten pounds but still wearing my pink sweaters too big. I still believed in meritocracy and the truth winning out. In a good way. It’s not really my former fake husband Paul Rudd, though he’s not at his best here, playing a guy that is in an emotional holding pattern. It’s not even the cute little abled newcomer that wouldn’t really want me to remember him for this. It’s just…I’ve seen it. The overprotective mother, the abled character with the heart that gets opened after wading into shit that he knows nothing about. Probably a quick, quietly cinematic death. (I mean, I guess that’s how every story ends, but this? Besides maybe true-crime, might be the one genre where I never get to escape that knowledge. )Does that make me deep, or impoverish my hope and imagination…all questions I can ponder while not being fascinated by this acutely pedestrian(ha!) flick during what a tabloid of my youth might call My Brave Final Days. At least, sometimes they feel like that. Even though I’m not really brave and have probably never been it. I wish I had.
And maybe I’m sick of being represented by kid stuff. By some sickly kid getting one big gulp of life but then going quietly, but holding the hope that my own life would be different like some secret fucking after-dinner mint. That’s not the fault of anyone on this movie, but I swear to god I wish it were. (And besides, I got my big gulp over fifty years, so, ha, life, I win. Even if it would make me evil enough to have a reason to hate Selena Gomez.)
The end was more open…a little dickish. And, does anyone believe Mom would let go that long? But I guess it was a surprise, so, half-credit.
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