I decided maybe two weeks ago that I was keen to see Gorillas in the Mist again, mostly because it had been several years since I’d seen it last and Cleve and I had been joking about “going bush” à la Dian Fossey.
But I definitely hadn’t seen the film since I spent so much time, with chimpanzees and gorillas, and I guess I even surprised myself tonight by my involuntary reactions.
I got shudders when Digit put his hand in Fossey/Weaver’s... I could literally smell the musk of a gorilla and the hear low grunt of contentment.
Maybe that’s why I got so sucked into the film that I found myself crying out, and getting breathy and teary and generally uncontrollably upset.
When they pull the baby gorilla (“Pucker”) away from her dead mother, I nearly had to stop watching.
Part of me feels like a gross stereotype. Next thing, I’ll be screaming “GET OFF MY MOUNTAIN!!”
I guess the positive notes I should take from it is steeling myself for the challenges ahead --
But really, I can’t fault myself for caring already. How could I not?
later edit: Of course, now it's 4am in New York and I'm looking for anything happy and light to watch... and what's on HBO? Last King of Scotland.
Can't bear to watch more movies that ache inside. Not tonight.