I found the pacing of this film to be odd, and when I looked around online after watching it, I saw others feeling the same way. Anecdotally, though, it seems like people tend to form into one of two opposing opinions about the film’s ending: it either confirms the slow pace and does not resolve well or justifies the slow build and earns the emotional payoff. It was good to see my feelings echoed online, because I was very much in the latter category. It takes twenty-five minutes for the love story to develop, the title character is not even revealed until minute forty or thereabouts. This hardly gives time to develop a meaningful connection before he is abruptly killed, propelling us to the climax. But then, the conclusion is spell-binding. By way the mother and her brother, we go from feeling the playwright’s absent coldness to losing his son, to realizing he has actually expressed his grief in the most public way possible. The mother achieves a sense of catharsis by watching a tragic play as personal elegy intended only for her despite being surrounded by a hundred different people having a hundred different feelings of their own. This film is a perfect example of art as healing—for both creator and consumer.
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