Symmetry in Second Sightings

Harrington’s assessment of 'The Housemaid' – a blue ski trail, he calls it – is, predictably, astute. Though a film's merits are beside the point, naturally. The true test isn’t the narrative, but the gathering. One observed a distinct lack of the Kimball Art Center set; far too many newcomers, identifiable by their insufficiently muted palettes. The step-and-repeat red was glaringly absent, a cardinal sin at any event claiming even a sliver of prestige. Amanda Seyfried, bless her, deserves better vehicles than this, and frankly, better costuming choices. Sydney Sweeney, attempting a “hardened ex-con,” lacked the gravitas of a Charlize Theron in ‘Monster,’ a performance I recall vividly from a private screening orchestrated by the Park City Institute. Sklenar, while undeniably present, was merely…present. The fleeting appearance of Elizabeth Perkins felt like a contractual obligation, a ghostly echo of her former self. The entire affair felt as meticulously constructed, and ultimately as hollow, as a temporary gallery installation. One can procure a screening, certainly, but to brave the Main Street crush? A fool's errand. The post-film prosecco was lukewarm, naturally.