Remember Reginna? Reggie? Linda? Larry? (Oh, I remember you Reginna!)
Do you remember your first love? Remember how it came down to you light as chiffon and picked you up so that when you walked your legs cycled, like you were running in mid-air?
Remember when you found out that that crazy hazy buoyancy of love as big as a cloud wasn’t, wouldn’t be, returned? That all your awkward efforts of transcribing your forever-love upon the flawless object of your love were just, well, goofy? And you were left standing naked (I’m hoping metaphorically) and alone in a rainy playground, a mere silly boy or girl?
Remember the chiffon cloud turning to stone and falling on your head when you found out that the object of your love actually loved your friend?
Do you remember how the whole wringing experience of this gave you a world of wisdom, …or not? And do you recall looking at your parents, your grandparents, aunts and uncles with a new discerning light, and you saw that they too, still might not have deciphered the vagaries of their own love and desire and dreams and disappointments? And that maybe this is what caused all their grumpy weirdness?
But then strangely, maybe they intuited your experience and it threw a flicker of light on their own relationship and as Cohen says, the gates of love budged.
If any of this reverberates, resonates, regurgitates, then go and see "Percy, Buffalo Bill and I". It’s not a "great" film. It’s simply and innocently charming. If it’s been awhile since you left a theatre emotionally sated and hopeful about the misunderstood stranger embedded deep within you, well, when the film festival comes to your town, step out to see it.
There is space enough for all in this Swedish (English subtitles) gem. Think opposite of Ingmar Bergman (mercifully) but with the same penchant for intuition over intellect. It’s wonderfully un-Hollywood.