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I finished The Remains of the Day two days ago, and I still don’t feel quite well.
The film has long been one of my favorites, though my first reaction to it was almost resentment, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, precisely because I recognized something of myself in it. The performances by Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson are extraordinary, restrained yet devastating. The film is not entirely faithful to the novel, but it captures its essence remarkably well - the prose is translated into cinematic language with a quiet confidence that serves the narrative beautifully.
After finishing the novel, what unsettles me most, even now, is the emotional residue it leaves behind. I feel as though I carry some fragment of Stevens’ burden within me, and Miss Kenton’s sorrow as well. I recognize myself in Stevens, not in his devotion to his profession, but in that rigid self-control, that tendency to suppress feeling in the name of dignity, or what one believes dignity to be.
I too, have turned away from a long-held love, guided by ideals I constructed for myself, along with a somewhat unforgiving moral compass. There is also, perhaps, an inherited weight - something passed down, quietly but persistently, from father to child. And so time begins to feel uncertain, almost insubstantial: days pass, but one is left wondering what, if anything, endures. Where, then, is dignity? Where is purpose?
Stevens strikes me not only as a complex character, but as a profoundly fearful one, someone who seeks refuge in restraint, who mistakes emotional withdrawal for strength. I wouldn’t call him an unreliable narrator so much as a guarded one, he is not entirely truthful, but not out of deceit - rather because he cannot fully confront the truth within himself. And that, perhaps, is the most human thing about him.
It was a deeply affecting experience, one that lingers in a quiet, almost uncomfortable way. I remain under its spell, and I know I will return to Ishiguro again.
#entertainment
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The film has long been one of my favorites, though my first reaction to it was almost resentment, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, precisely because I recognized something of myself in it. The performances by Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson are extraordinary, restrained yet devastating. The film is not entirely faithful to the novel, but it captures its essence remarkably well - the prose is translated into cinematic language with a quiet confidence that serves the narrative beautifully.
After finishing the novel, what unsettles me most, even now, is the emotional residue it leaves behind. I feel as though I carry some fragment of Stevens’ burden within me, and Miss Kenton’s sorrow as well. I recognize myself in Stevens, not in his devotion to his profession, but in that rigid self-control, that tendency to suppress feeling in the name of dignity, or what one believes dignity to be.
I too, have turned away from a long-held love, guided by ideals I constructed for myself, along with a somewhat unforgiving moral compass. There is also, perhaps, an inherited weight - something passed down, quietly but persistently, from father to child. And so time begins to feel uncertain, almost insubstantial: days pass, but one is left wondering what, if anything, endures. Where, then, is dignity? Where is purpose?
Stevens strikes me not only as a complex character, but as a profoundly fearful one, someone who seeks refuge in restraint, who mistakes emotional withdrawal for strength. I wouldn’t call him an unreliable narrator so much as a guarded one, he is not entirely truthful, but not out of deceit - rather because he cannot fully confront the truth within himself. And that, perhaps, is the most human thing about him.
It was a deeply affecting experience, one that lingers in a quiet, almost uncomfortable way. I remain under its spell, and I know I will return to Ishiguro again.
#entertainment
source
| 4,000 mlx | |
| 6 | |
| 0 |