Random Hearts (M)
Director: Sydney Pollock
Bug rating out of 5: One-and-a-half.

Be patient with me

Congresswoman Kay Chandler had made a career of keeping her emotions in check, of clinically dissecting her motives and everyday moves as she made her name representing the conservative people of even more conservative New Hampshire.
Sure, she hadn't been in politics long, but now her minders were talking carelessly about a possible tilt at the White House. Even her own powerful ambitions had not driven her to that notion before – the first female president. Kay had to admit she found the idea, much like herself, to be very, very attractive.
But if that was to be her future, it was a future very blurred by the dramatic events of the past 12 hours. Her future was very much now, and the how of the now was how she responded to this enigmatic stranger now sitting uncomfortably beside her. What he wanted from her made her future anything but bright.
They sat for a while in the silence of his black compact, and for someone who had always kept her emotions in check, she was troubled by the profound feelings that surged through her. This person threatened yet somehow challenged her to make sense of these surges, as strong as the jet engines of the aircraft lifting off from the airport dimly lit in the distance, that she could not describe, let alone begin to understand.
She had only just met this man hours before – an internal affairs cop by the name of Dutch Van Den Broeck. Handsome? I guess so, Kay was shocked to find herself pondering as the silence engulfed them, bringing them somehow closer together. She almost shook her head when it dawned on her how much he looked like that actor Harrison Ford, only much older of course. With a lot of folds under his neck; a bit like looking at the Rocky mountains, only upside down.
Then again, friends had always told her she looked a lot like that woman who was in The English Patient. What was her name? Kristin Scott Thomas?
They had been strangers until only hours before - not Ford and Scott Thomas; they've surely worked together - no, she meant herself and this surly, indifferent cop.
He had come into her life unannounced, shattering her plans with the news that not only had their respective spouses been long-term lovers, they had both died on a plane flight to a secret weekend assignation in South America.
His wife, her husband, were still strapped inside a submerged 737, secret lovers in life, united permanently and unashamedly in death.
Kay Chandler turned to stare out the darkened window, and she wondered if the rivulets of water on the window were a reflection of her own tears, or the light rain that had begun to fall softly outside.
Her personal life had died with her philandering husband, and she realised that the threads of the only thing that remained and mattered – her political career – would quickly unravel in a blaze of sordid unwanted publicity if the affair was ever made public. She faced a tough battle for re-election against a ruthless, cashed-up opponent who would not think twice before bringing her down with every last detail of the affair – the stained sheets, the lipstick – this man's dead wife's lipstick – on the discarded wine glass , the seedy motel room carpet littered with discarded condoms and various sex aides, his favourite schoolboy's uniform, the party hats.
"My husband is dead in the water," she said quietly after she had turned back to face him. "And so is my career if you continue to pursue this matter."
Pain can affect people in so many different ways, Kay though as she watched and waited for this stony-faced cop to respond.
He had obviously loved his wife – Peyton he said her name was – and he was clearly shattered by the news of the affair. That pain, that suffering, manifested itself in his facial features now, as he looked goofily at her, in much the same way Harrison Ford does when he's trying to act.
"I've got to know how long this has been going on," he said hoarsely, staring fixedly at Kay's beautiful, creamy neck. She saw exactly where his gaze was held and her hand flew defensively to her throat to hide the faint blush that had begun to spread over that very elegant, very long English neck of hers.
"I've got to find out," he said, even more hoarsely now.
"You'll ruin me," she shouted. Suddenly, her dainty English hands began beating a helpless tattoo on his broad and manly chest. His hands flew up and held her pale English arms tightly, with just a delicious hint of pain.
This is not happening, she though as she lunged towards him, their lips meeting violently in a mixture of anger, passion and humiliation - humiliation for what they had both gone through, what perhaps still lay ahead.
She felt the urgency of his need pressing against her, his hands groping inside her $2400 Saks teale-coloured designer suit she had chosen specifically to beguile her male minders at that crucial campaign strategy meeting only that morning.
Now the rough hands of this man - practically a stranger - were deep inside that suit, searching for those hidden crevices that make every woman the woman she is.
"I'm stiffer than your husband could possibly be at the moment," he moaned gently into one of her beautiful English ears.
She could not believe her body was opening up to him, that she – a life-long Republican voter – was willingly taking Peyton's place: "I'm wetter than your wife could possibly be right now," she whispered, seeking out his tongue, imploring him to use it not just as an instrument of passion, but to wash away the feelings of betrayal and pain that had threatened to engulf her all day.

The preceeding paragraphs have been reproduced from Page 124 of that 1963 Mills and Boon classic, Random Hearts, by kind permission of the publishers. Why anyone would have wanted to make a movie out of such crap is completely beyond comprehension.

- Don Gordon-Brown