Who can trust memories? And why should a memory film -- this one, say -- be any more reliable than a dream newsreel? Flipping through the family album of his imagination, an indulgent author wants to forgive and embrace everyone. So he airbrushes the warts and sets any bedroom closet skeletons to dancing merrily. After all, the kids will be watching. He may also find that his fondness for vignettes ("Remember when Aunt Bea got squiffed and vamped the delivery boy?") undercuts the dramatic imperative to hold the anonymous viewer's attention. Private lives don't always play in public. Grandpa's % ripping...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
