or, “Misanthropic Thanatophiles in Love”: A spoiler-free mini movie review.
3.5 out of 5
“Kissed” is a bizarre but on-brand Canadian film, with Molly Parker (from Global TV’s “Doc”) in her first major appearance. It’s a drama that skews closer to video art, with a striking premise that eventually plays second-fiddle to a middling obsession plot.
But damned if it exists at all: a straight-faced movie about necrophilia.Jörg Buttgereit’s “Nekromantik” this is not – though both films share the same fleeting duration of just over an hour: an unheard-of runtime in today’s feature market. Plenty for director Lynne Stopkewich to poke her head in, make her points, and leave, in – fingers-crossed – the most memorable way possible.
The prologue is laudable: a snapshot of heroine Sandra’s youth & learned Wiccanness, growing from a respect for the dead into intimacy. Getting these details about the protagonist so early made me emotionally invested in the unorthodox subject matter – as did Parker’s fearless, Genie award winning performance as the adult Sandra (Genies are the Canadian Oscars, now called the “Canadian Screen Awards”).
“The night of Cassidy & Arthur’s dinner ‘date’ & its aftermath, and the story ends.” Click Here for Part One & Part Two.
x
“Arthur? Is that you?“
Cassidy was confused to see him. She hopped on twenty minutes in to his bus ride, knapsack in-tow, to see him sitting near the front of the bus on one of the benches parallel to the aisle, wearing a sweatshirt with the hood up. She recognized his stubble. There wasn’t a spot next to him, so she hovered, still sporting her knapsack, holding on to the grip bar with clammy palms.
“Hm?“
She reached for his hood and flipped it off his head. He had some very noticeable scratches at the base of his nose and along his eyebrow line, but it was him, “What are you doing taking the bus?”
“Oh hi.”
“What are you doing taking the bus?”
“I couldn’t get my car started.”
“Oh.”
“…What are you doing taking the bus?”
“Somebody said they were driving later.”
“Oh. You couldn’t get a ride?”
“I didn’t think I needed one.”
“Oh. I had figured I’d just drive us wherever from the restaurant and then take us back to your car.”
“Never mind. I’m over it.”
“…We’re still going out after though, right?”
“How am I getting home?”
“…The bus?“
“Heh, you’re funny.” He wasn’t.
“I’m sorry, Cassidy. It kind of threw me for a loop, too. You’re on my route, though, so I guess we can just come back the same way together, when we’re done.”
“Sure.” They puttered silently for a minute as the bus rolled along, “How much longer does it take?”
“Only, like, ten more minutes.”
“That close, huh?”
“Yeah, it just rips by when you’re driving yourself. You don’t get all the little detours.”
“Actually, I usually have to take the long way around on the highway. If I could take the one-way roads like a bus, I’d never be late for a shift.” She snorted. Arthur grimaced.
The bus went over a bump, and Cassidy lost her balance and stepped backward, smooshing her knapsack against the face of someone sitting on the chair behind her, “Get off of me!”
Cassidy looked behind her, “Oh, I’m so sorry!” She took her bag off and put it on the floor next to her. She started to think of another one of those absurd porn videos she’d seen in those brief, intimate exposures online, where it looked like the Japanese schoolgirl was getting raped on a public bus full of salarymen. But those would-be idiots had better watch out this time! She had pepper spray ready! She just had to kneel down, reach into her knapsack after she took it off, and fish for it – in the meantime, her ass would be sticking out. She’d be a sitting duck.
Arthur started to stand, “Did you want to sit down?”
“…No. No, thanks, I’m fine. It’s not much longer anyway.” He could have offered earlier, “So what happened to your face?”
“What about my face?”
“Your face! You have scratches all under here.” She motioned around her nose with her finger. Arthur flipped his hood back up.
“I just cut myself a few times while I was shaving. It’s no big deal.” They didn’t say anything else for the rest of the ride. Both justified the silence by being comfortable enough with one another to share the moments when neither had to speak. Or something.
“A flashback to the year before their encounter, when Cassidy was pining & unemployed, and Arthur wasn’t single but still wasn’t happy.” Click Here for Part One.
v
Cassidy was nineteen. That she was on the Principal’s List her Senior year meant nothing now she had graduated.
But if strangers didn’t have a hard time ignoring her giant, six-foot-five-inch stature, then her double-d breasts were the deal-breaker, which she tried to offset from an otherwise tiny frame by only ever wearing dark tops.
She had ash-brown hair that fell to her waist, which she never combed as much as the time she spent considering she should, and as a result the ends were split and messy. Her mother offered to comb it for her, but it took too long when Mom did it, and it was painful, in more ways than one: Cassidy was at the age now that, if mother & daughter sat together too long, then the younger would get interrogated about all the maternal standards, like what it was Cassidy wanted to do now that it was approaching a full year that she was out of high school – motherly bundled with a few other unsolicited suggestions.
Cassidy’s jeans were two sizes too big for her athletic core, and today’s pair wasn’t any different. But that was her prerogative: if they were any tighter, they would accentuate her hips, and a lower body toned from taking PE class seriously. She didn’t need anything else on her person to stand out. She looked down at her belt: it didn’t feel so tight on her, but it was too tight for the pant, as the loose waistline hung all scrunched-up below the buckle at the front.
Did she lose weight? Again? She loosened the belt by a notch, grabbed the pant by the button, and pulled the baggy garment back up over the buckle, resting the space between her pant and the button on the top rung of the buckle, like a shelf.
She liked the way working out made her feel, and she loved the camaraderie of a friend group who all enjoyed spending time outside and away from their phones, unlike a majority of their peers. This afternoon, as she looked at her reflection in her family’s rose-trimmed bathroom mirror while wearing a simple black t-shirt, Cassidy grabbed her hair by its tuft and guided it through a tie and into a bun, stuffing its true heft within itself. She leaned forward and checked again for acne, in the small, inflamed clusters of blackheads that lingered near the caves of her eyes. She straightened up, and standing tall her eyes met the top edge of the mirror. It was like that for two years and counting, and she still wasn’t used to it.
The first of a short story in three parts. A dramedy for mature readers.
“In a post-COVID world, a naive & lonely nineteen-year-old waitress crosses paths with a middle-aged, misanthropic line-cook.”
The following is dedicated to two special ladies – neither I introduced myself properly to, but from what I assumed formed the basis of the character of Cassidy; and to my wonderful wife, for whom if I ever were to leave, or her leave I, this story would stand as prognostication.
i
“Why won’t you talk to me?”
Arthur heard what she said, and the tremble behind it, “What did you say?”
“Why won’t you talk to me?”
“I don’t like people.” He intended that as a period and went back to work, but since he bothered to reply, it was an invitation.
“You can say ‘hi’.”
“Hi, huh?”
“Yeah. You know, saying hi probably takes less than a second. We have been here all night together.”
“Okay, thanks.” He went back to scrubbing the inside of one of the fryers.
It was after-hours one regular Saturday night in November. Arthur & Cassidy were scheduled the closing shift: they had both done it before, just not together yet. Cassidy saw it as an opportunity to get to know Arthur better, but, as was his norm now, all Arthur wanted to do was fight back his discomfort with stoicism, finish the job, and go home. He was bone-tired, and attacking a hard, crunchy bit of caked-on residue with a steel wool brush. He still had two more fryers to clean, and he had ten minutes until their scheduled shift ended at 10PM. These things were shit: no wonder management had to keep replacing them.
Cassidy had more-or-less finished everything in the dining room and was sweeping up in the vestibule, slowly and cautiously approaching the kitchen as she completed the spots before it. There were only the two of them left in the building, and she had the keys to lock up. Faintly, on the worn-out, twenty-year-old Phillips stereo that sat perched high on a shelf in the vestibule played the soft reverberations of Top-40 radio.
“…That’s it?”
“What else do you want me to say, Cassidy? I’m trying to scrub this shit off the fryer. I’m busy.”
“You know, just some soap and water would do the trick.”
“…Really?“
“Hey, if you want to stay here all night to win the war on dirt & grime, be my guest. But I’d like to go home at some point, and I’m all done, so…”
“Did you do the bathrooms yet?”
“Yes I did the bathrooms. I told you I was done. You don’t think I don’t want to go home, too?”
“You want to clean this too? Be my guest.” He rudely threw the brush down and stepped back, handing the reigns to her. She filled a red bucket with soapy water from the sink, took a rag, and wiped the spot. Even when hunched over, she still towered almost a foot above him. The crud began to break up, leaving the scratched surface from the wool brush underneath, “Okay, okay, okay, thank you so much.”
“See? You don’t have to be so rough with everything.”
“Listen, if you’re done, why don’t you go dust off the stereo speakers so I can actually hear something back here.”
“I would, if we had any dusters.”
“Then, I don’t know, go find the step-ladder and wipe off the little shelf it sits on. Oh wait, you don’t need that.”
“Har-dee-har-har.”
“I can be bratty, too.”
“Who’s being bratty?”
“You! You’re bratty. You’re a bratty girl.”
“…Is that some porn thing?” She was having fun with him, now.
“Whatever. Do whatever you want to do. That’s what you do anyway.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just leave me alone, okay?”
“No, what did you said?”
“I said you kids are going to do whatever it is you’re going to do anyway, so who gives a shit what I tell you, hm? You’re probably not even listening.”
“What’s this all about, Arthur?” It was the first time he had ever heard her say his name out-loud.
“Nothing!”
“You’re such a liar.”
“Fine, it’s you. You and all the other dumb White girls that get hired. Okay? You’re a bunch of entitled snowflakes who don’t know anything about putting in a real day’s work. Tell me I’m wrong! You all have your fucking hacks online to make shit easier for yourselves, while guys like me get shit on, even though I’m breaking my fucking back. It’s bullshit and I’m fucking sick of it.”
“Is that why you haven’t been talking to me? Because you think I’m a bad co-worker? Listen buddy, you don’t even know me. We’ve said more to each other tonight than we have in the whole three months we’ve been working together. You don’t say hi, you don’t look at me, you ignore me when I talk to you over the counter…”
theory of a daskeman 