Doris, you knew that couldn't end well: a film observation

When we came out of the movie Hello My Name Is Doris I told Dan I was a little disappointed in it. What I didn't tell him is that I had spent the first 40-50 minutes feeling — I don't know, embarrassed, I guess — and hoping there was going to be some kind of interesting and amazing twist to get me out of there.

Well, there wasn't so I had to think my way through it and finally come to a conclusion that explains the problem I have with it.

To start with, the problem is not Sally Field. I love Sally Field and she's a great actress.

She plays Doris.

It wasn't the way Doris dressed.

Sally Field as Doris

I've had too many conversations over too many years with people who talk about "dressing your age." Dress however you please! Dress in whatever makes you feel comfortable — or if you're not comfortable and you just like the way you look, dress like that! Don't listen to anyone who wants to tell you how to dress!

Doris' style is very individual and I can't even imagine her in stuffy little suits or housedresses.

Doris lived with her mother all her life in an over-stuffed/cluttered Staten Island House. She takes the ferry and two subways to her job in Manhattan where she works in a cubicle in an office with a collection of good-looking young people. Early in the movie, her mother passes away and Doris has to deal with her brother and a hostile sister-in-law about estate matters and with a therapist who specializes in "hoarders."

The main plot-line though involves Doris and John, a new co-worker.

When I was telling Dan how I felt the movie had gone wrong, I believed it to be the age difference between Doris and John that made me uncomfortable. Doris is pushing 70; they never say how old John is although I read in a couple of reviews that he's 35. He looks more like 27 to me.

Doris and John

Doris is very attracted to John. She misreads a couple of his signals and believes he feels the same way about her. She actively and blatantly pursues him with the help of the 13-year-old granddaughter of her best friend who helps her set up a fake Facebook account to stalk him and helps her understand certain millennial lingo. (I'm describing the movie accurately but somehow, it sounds worse than it really was.)

I don't know, I said to Dan later. Maybe if he were a little older — say in his 40s — I wouldn't feel that it's all a little inappropriate.

But after thinking about it some more, I realized I was wrong. I wasn't wrong about how the movie handled it; I was wrong about what the problem was.

There was nothing wrong with the way Doris was feeling. Of course she was attracted to John. Look at him!

Max Greenfield as John

He's kind and sweet and funny. He's handsome — on my Jon-Hamm-handsome-o-metre, he's right up there, in the eight or nine bracket.

Doris being attracted to John — physically, sexually — was perfectly natural. I enjoyed thinking about that; I was glad the movie acknowledged her feelings so frankly.

I did not, however, enjoy the boy-crazy, manipulative way she pursued him. You knew that couldn't end well. I think it would have been a better movie if it had dealt honestly — and bawdily — with the sexy way she was feeling, with her fantasies, with exchanging confidences with her best friend. But clearly, the source of my discomfort was that she was setting herself up to be humiliated and I really didn't want to be a witness to that.

Having said all that, there were a lot of good moments in the film. I'm glad to see a really good role for Sally Field — as I was for Lily Tomlin in Grandma. All the supporting actors were great. Tyne Daly, for example, can do no wrong.

Tyne Daly as Roz with Doris

An interesting fact: This movie was made in three weeks for $1 million. There should be an award for that.

Love is the sweetest thing. . . Part Three

Part One. Part Two.

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It was raining when I got to Montreal and I took a taxi up the hill to the residence. It was quiet. Most of my own classmates had already moved out. I had a couple more weeks to live there as I was making up the time I'd lost when I had my tonsillectomy.

The desk ladies were happy to see me. They were stern and strict but I suppose we knew on some level that they had our best interests at heart. They wanted to know how I was feeling after my surgery and if I felt strong enough to be back. Of course I said I was fine.

I asked if there were any messages for me — and yes, I really believed there would be messages. Or a message. There was nothing.

Over the next few days, I had to get back to work and do some planning to try and get my immediate future life in order but there came a day when I decided I had to try to get some answers.

I had practically nothing to go on. He had been living with "some people" and didn't feel comfortable taking a guest there so I had no idea who they were. I had no name or number. I tried Information, in case he had got his own place and now had a phone. Nothing there. After some difficulties, I managed to get through to a human at the YMCA. I spoke to a young woman who left me on the line for a few minutes. When she came back, she said, "I'm sorry, he no longer works here." I asked if he'd given any number or address, any way of reaching him. She said she had no forwarding information.

I called the tailor on Park Avenue and sure enough, my blazer was still there, awaiting pick-up.

And with that, I had reached the limit of my resources.

Over the next while, I functioned because I had to. On my time off, I would go for walks, walking on the same streets where we used to walk. I would drop into the same coffee shops or restaurants. Sometimes, I would sit on a park bench, imagining him suddenly reappearing.

I never saw him again.

As you've come this far with me, I wish I could offer you a more satisfactory conclusion. I apologize for this but I'm going to leave you with an open-ended story.

It was a long time ago but I presume my heart was broken.

In the years since his "disappearance" I've tried to imagine a few things that might have happened.

1. He was offered a job in another city that wanted him with no strings attached and he decided I was expendable.

2. He met someone whose charms overwhelmed him to the extent that he couldn't tell me he had fallen for someone else and he just ran away with her.

3. He agreed to swear Crown's evidence against the Mafia and got placed in a witness protection program.

4. He was married all along.

5. He was a spy.

6. Or dead.

In spite of the way the relationship ended — or didn't end — there were some nice memories: Tennyson's poems, the letters, Golde and Moishe.

There was also something that happened early in the relationship that could have raised a warning flag. One evening, after we'd been seeing each other for a couple of weeks, he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and said he had something for me. It was a poem and he said he'd written it for me. I read it and I thanked him. Remember, I didn't know him very well. What I did know though was that he hadn't written that poem. I was familiar with the poem and the poet's other works so I knew. I let it go and I said nothing. Maybe he was testing me.

Okay, one more thing: his name was Bruce Allen.

I've often wondered if he went into the music business in Vancouver and managed the careers of Bryan Adams, Jann Arden, Michael Bublé, Anne Murray and many others. If he did, there should be some way I could get my $40.00 back. With interest.

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P.S. I don't really know why I used Love is the sweetest thing as my headline except when I started to write this, it was playing in my head. I guess this is a sweet story in some ways so maybe it's not inappropriate. Here is a lovely version. As I finished writing this story, I listened to it. I urge you, as you've finished reading it, to listen to it too.

Love is the sweetest thing. . . Part two

You can read the first part of the story right here.

There was a great atmosphere on the station platform around the people meeting the train. Most of the people getting off the train were excited too. There were little children jumping down the steps running to meet grandparents and there were student-aged young people, happy to be home but too cool to let their parents see that.

I waited back near the station door — I thought he would probably be among the last off. The crowd on the platform had begun to disperse; there were a couple of stragglers who jumped off well after everyone else. There were a few people getting on and they mostly waited until the coast was clear. I could see the conductor checking his watch and getting ready to make his legendary announcement. "All aboard!"

I could tell there was no one else getting off. He might like to tease a little by hanging back but he was not cruel and he wouldn't put me in that position. The conductor gave me a little wave and swung himself up into the coach.

The train pulled away and there I was, all alone on the platform.

I drove home and acted as casual as I could. Well, I said to Mum and Dad — after explaining that I was indeed, alone — something must have happened. We'll just have to wait and see.

The minute the long distance rates changed — 7:00 p.m., our time — our phone rang. There he was, contrite and sweet, begging me to understand that something had come up and he simply couldn't get away. He said things had straightened themselves out and he'd definitely be on the train the next day and I should expect him the day after. We chatted a bit although it was a little uncomfortable. He tried to make me feel better and said he could hardly wait to see me.

That's how I reported it to Mum and she was tactful enough to not say anything.

Two days later, I went to the station again. I parked in the same place but when the train pulled in, I stayed in the car. I watched all the activity of people coming and going and when the train pulled out, I backed out of the parking lot and headed home. You can understand, of course, that this was not only puzzling but also humiliating.

My mother was very nice. She didn't ask a lot of questions — I just brushed it off and said something was going on that I hadn't figured out but I'd definitely bring her up to speed when I had enough information.

He called again that evening. He wasn't so much contrite and sweet as he was sheepish and embarrassed. He said he knew how I must be feeling. He said he loved me and missed me. He said he would be on the train the next day, come hell or high water, and although our New Brunswick time would be shorter than planned, at least we could make a few memories together.

I told Mum a bit about the conversation but I omitted the part about his saying he'd be on the train the next day.

The next day, I made up an errand I had to run when the train was due and once more, I drove to the station. I didn't park in the regular lot where the others were parked. I pulled in down the road a bit where there was cinder underfoot, not pavement.

I waited, as I had waited twice before, then I drove home. I stopped and bought a pair of nylons in the 5 & 10. I never said a word to my parents about my third trip to the station.

There was no phone call that evening.

A few days later, Dad drove me to the station. I got on the train, smiled and waved, and went back to Montreal.

(Sorry. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to come back one more time.)

(Here's part three.)

Love is the sweetest thing. . .

Late in my third year as a student at the Montreal General Hospital, I began going out with a young man who worked at the YMCA, then affiliated with and housed in the old Sir George Williams University building. I have no memory of how or where I met him although I have tried my best to remember.

I was still living in residence so our relationship was built around my inconvenient nursing hours and my student curfew. I think it was likely that we didn't have much money — I certainly didn't and he was quite new at his job — and we spent a lot of time walking around the streets in downtown Montreal, stopping for coffee, sitting on a bench under a tree.

He was very good company: he was funny and easy-going and he seemed to enjoy doing things that would please me.

We often went to eat in one of the downtown St. Hubert BBQ restaurants. There was one on Ste. Catherine, just west of Guy St. which we often went to; this one was a few blocks east of there, on Peel St.

The food was, it certainly was, memorable. Mmmm. . . that sauce was so good.

When the weather wasn't good or when we had run out of places to be, we'd often sit and talk in one of the "beau rooms" in my residence at the General. A beau room was comfortable, furnished with a couch and chairs and table lamps. The door had a window in it and supervision was never far away. Your feet were expected to remain on the floor.

He didn't have an apartment but he was expecting to get one and in the meantime, he was staying with some people and couldn't comfortably have guests over.

He did take me to see his office in the Y building and he introduced me to his boss. We spent a short time socializing and had a nice time there.

One evening, sitting in the St. Hubert, he told me he'd bought me a gift. I think it was an occasion — maybe our monthiversary — and he slid a small bag across the table. It was a book, a vintage edition of Tennyson's Collected Poems. He knew I liked poetry and he'd really made an effort.

Edited to add: When I first published this story, I had mislaid the book and I used a generic Internet photo of a Tennyson book. The book has been found and this is it.

Several weeks after we had begun dating, I was booked to go into hospital for a tonsillectomy. This is considered a fairly serious procedure for an adult; I had been working up until my admission and had been on a course of antibiotics to get my tonsils down to a normal size for removal. He insisted that he would be coming to the hospital to see me post-surgery which I tried to discourage as I could only imagine my swollen face, lack of voice, puffy eyes. But he did come and he sat beside me, holding my hand while I was in and out of consciousness.

I had long-standing plans to go home for a month to New Brunswick — Chatham-on-the-Miramichi — to recuperate from my surgery. He said that he could get some time off and suggested that he would like to come to NB to visit me. Of course I said yes and we looked at a calendar and arranged that he would come by train toward the end of my month and we would travel back together.

We spent a couple of sad days anticipating our separation, then he took me to the station. Before I went down the stairs to the train level, he held me tenderly and said the time would go fast and we'd see each other soon. I remembered an errand I hadn't run and I gave him $40.00 and asked him to go to a Park Avenue tailor to pick up my MGH blazer which had been custom-made and was waiting for me. He happily agreed and off I went.

Life was stale and uninteresting at home but the one thing that kept me going was his correspondence. I had three letters from him in the time leading up to when we'd see each other again. His letters — I still have them too! — were sweet and often hilarious. He was Jewish and he had decided that when we got married, we should have two kids that we'd name Golde and Moishe. He filled his letters with little drawings and fantasies about our life together.

The day I was going to the train station to pick him up, I was both nervous and excited. My mother didn't help. She wasn't really looking forward to this visit although she was willing to go through with it and I knew she'd put on a hospitable act.

It was a warm, sunny, perfect day. I drove to Newcastle to the train station and parked where I could see the platform and where the passengers would be disembarking. I was calm and waited patiently. I heard the train whistle and saw other people who were meeting passengers get out of their cars and start to assemble on the platform.

The train lumbered in and came to a stop. As the passengers began to disembark, I got out of my car and walked over and joined the crowd.

I'll continue the story tomorrow.

(You can read part two right here.)