August 7, 2003
I have finally seen the film The Hours. The performances were solid, with the exception of Ed Harris, woefully, almost hilariously, miscast as a gay man dying of AIDS. Jeff Daniels was much more convincing in a role that amounted to little more than a walk-on. But otherwise I found the film to be heavy-handed and pretentious, with Philip Glass' dour, funereal score unimaginatively announcing upcoming moments of profundity – not unlike Emily's slant of light whose heft oppresses. Still, it rekindled my interest in the works of Virginia Woolfe, a visionary of astonishing depths, and for that I am grateful.