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Good looking out. I actually did miss that.
First off, Caveat, here's what I thought after I first watched it:
As to your points after your rewatch (and, before I start, let me state for the record that I have still only seen it the one time, so I'll be staying at a relatively general level here):
Meaning that you were able to become more intensely involved without having to worry about playing detective? Or meaning the first time through you weren't affected but the second time you were? Just curious.
More the first part. I think I expected something a little more mundane on the first watch and when things opened up (Desy's neck in particular - LOL) I was too taken aback to fit everything into proper context. The second time through I couldn't wait to get past all the typical murder-mystery stuff to watch the craziness unfold at the end - and I was better able to process it all at a coherent whole.
This is the Hitchcock territory I was alluding to. Hitchcock very famously included a "false flashback" in his film Stage Fright, and he also famously denounced it as a terrible mistake on his part. I actually don't mind the false flashback, especially in the context of Gone Girl. Unfortunately, I don't remember the film well enough to remember exactly what was going on with that flashback or how I responded.
That's interesting, I hadn't considered the false flashback before. I'm not sure what to make of it because I feel inconsistent immediately accepting the truth of one flashback but not another.
*FTFY.
She is crazy but that's too easy. I want to - as you say later - extend the olive branch to see where she's coming from.
I don't know if you're a big reader and/or a big fan of classical Hollywood, but with the way you're scrutinizing the implications of relationships/marriage, you'd probably enjoy Stanley Cavell's book Pursuits of Happiness: The Hollywood Comedy of Remarriage (https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=wws5ObJsUv0C&printsec=frontcover&dq=pursuits+of+happiness&hl=en&sa=X&redir_esc=y#v=onepage&q=pursuits of happiness&f=false). For Cavell, the main idea is the idea of remarriage where the "re" is meant to indicate the main issues in a marriage: First, what do the people involved understand (a/their) marriage to be (and, by extension, if their understanding changes, are they willing to continually redefine/reaffirm their marriage, i.e., are they willing to continually be remarried?), and second, is each one's "other half" a) suitable for them in terms of inspiring them to be the best person they can be and b) suited to them in terms of being inspired to be the best person they can be? And the fact that you ended your post on pretty much this exact ground is why I think you'd enjoy this book.
Two key passages from early in the book establishing the terms of Cavell's argument:
"[Comedies of remarriage] may be understood as parables of a phase of the development of consciousness at which the struggle is for the reciprocity or equality of consciousness between a woman and a man, a study of the conditions under which this fight for recognition (as Hegel put it) or demand for acknowledgment (as I have put it) is a struggle for mutual freedom, especially of the views each holds of the other. This gives the films of our genre a Utopian cast. They harbor a vision which they know cannot fully be domesticated, inhabited, in the world we know. They are romances. Showing us our fantasies, they express the inner agenda of a nation that conceives Utopian longings and commitments for itself."
"What is it about the conversation of just these films that makes it so perfectly satisfy the appetite of talking pictures? Granted the fact, the question can only be answered by consulting the films. Evidently their conversation is the verbal medium in which, for example, questions of human creation and the absence of mothers and the battle between men and women for recognition of one another, and whatever matters turn out to entail these, are given expression. So it is not sufficient that, say, the conversation be sexually charged. If it were sufficient then the genre would begin in 1931, with Noel Coward's Private Lives, a work patently depicting the divorce and remarrying of a rich and sophisticated pair who speak intelligently and who infuriate and appreciate one another more than anyone else. But their witty, sentimental, violent exchanges get nowhere; their makings up never add up to forgiving one another (no place they arrive at is home to them); and they have come from nowhere (their constant reminiscences never add up to a past they can admit together). They are forever stuck in an orbit around the foci of desire and contempt. This is a fairly familiar perception of what marriage is. The conversation of what I call the genre of remarriage is, judging from the films I take to define it, of a sort that leads to acknowledgment; to the reconciliation of a genuine forgiveness; a reconciliation so profound as to require the metamorphosis of death and revival, the achievement of a new perspective on existence; a perspective that presents itself as a place, one removed from the city of confusion and divorce."
From this perspective, Gone Girl could be an allegory of remarriage run amok. Amy's heart is in the right place (that's the only olive branch I can extend, and it doesn't extend very far); she wants the kind of relationship that Cavell describes as the utopian one of the mutual acknowledgment between two people and their commitment to bettering their lives as individuals and as a couple (and you acknowledged as much when you noted that Amy "still expresses a desire for intimacy [...] which shows a pretty intense commitment"). However, when it's clear that she's not going to achieve this with Nick, that Nick is not suited to her, she loses her shit. What's more, she violates the democratic principle of remarriage: That each individual be free to pursue their own happiness, that their happiness be one freely shared/freely shared. If she can be happy with a sham marriage that makes her husband miserable, then it's not a true marriage. The mutuality isn't there and both the concepts of marriage and of happiness are ultimately corrupted.
Hmmm, that does sound like me. I've never heard the term "re-marriage" before but I've expressed it in different language. People change, and we should expect that, but continuous assent to a committed union can still be had so long at the union is doing the job it's supposed to.
I agree with you about Amy's starting point but I think I break with her in how she responds to Nick being an asshole. He clearly has a bunch of insecurities that she should have been able to identify and talk about rather than delving into her own psychopathology to design a murder-suicide mission.
But I can also see that she's acted as a effective tool to push some of those domestic questions into the limelight where a more balanced girl - a "cool girl" perhaps - may have felt the frustration without being able to provoke the response.
So she's a crazy psycho, but a functional crazy psycho.
Now, with what you mentioned about the "feminism angle": There could be a way to interpret this less as an allegory of remarriage run amok and more as the failure of remarriage - and a failure that is the fault of men. Amy, the representative of Woman (not as inherently crazy but as driven crazy - i.e., driven crazy by men, here by Nick, the representative of Man), gets fed up with how sucky her "perfect guy" is and just goes ape shit. I don't remember the movie well enough to actually want to take up this interpretation right now, but there was so much going on that, while I will never waver from considering Amy a psycho who should die in a very public car accident (or some other comparable scenario where Nick can in no way be implicated), her craziness doesn't invalidate an interpretation of the film that sees it as questioning, in shrewd and provocative fashion, the current state of marriage in the American context.
Exactly what I was getting at.
That said, I was actually thinking of the feminist angle more in the sense of a pendulum of harmful over-reactions swinging back and forth. Amy is treated poorly, as are many other women, she responds by setting Nick up to get killed, the way some expressions of feminism today are very anti-men. Nick responds by trying to strike back at her full-force, MRA-style, but she's already moved on to a world where his value to her doesn't require his personhood, and where she's played the system properly to her own advantage (maybe a warning?). The kid fits the analogy somewhere too, in a way I can't think up right now.
Reading through the reviews a little more, it seems there was actually some controversy about whether Gone Girl should be understood as a feminist film. Supporters appreciated seeing a truly malicious, nonredeemable female character free of her obligations to some feminine virtue, while detractors thought she fit too perfectly into the fictional threatening-female mold devised by MRAs and other groups that could potentially be described at anti-women.
I think the answer is probably somewhere in between, but like we sort of agreed above, it definitely prompted an interesting set of questions.
Everybody Wants Some blends those two together. He's able to stand apart from it and look at the overt (and seemingly healthy) masculinity he was once part of. @Caveat : you should check it out buddy.
On it, thanks man.