I watch Mia Farrow watch Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Mia is a commoner standing among many in the pit; instead of Shakespeare, it is the American musical, no less universal or eternal.
The ninety-some minutes of her life we’ve seen up until this point have been alzheimer’s, one minute there’s hope, then hell. She’s sitting with a child’s sad slump right now, as the camera zooms in on her face, aflicker with cinematic firelight. A secret glee starts in her eyes, as if an unseen lover is gently stroking the back of her neck.
She is just understanding for the first time that film and reality cannot date, they cannot even have coffee, because they are in two separate states of being. Cinema does not change where you will sleep tonight, but it does change what you will dream about. No matter how unrecognizable her life may become, she will always be a ticket away to someone else’s.