Walt – All that work I did at the end of our marriage, making dinners, cleaning up, being more attentive. It never was going to make a difference, was it? You were leaving no matter what… Joan – You never made a dinner. Walt – I made burgers that time you had pneumonia.
It is as if nothing is happening in the here and now, but recalled through some medium that imposes a somnambulist slowness on everything: the look and sound of dead men walking.
But, Mrs. Mulwray, I goddamn near lost my nose. And I like it. I like breathing through it. And I still think you’re hiding something.
But the life of Tony and his mother, they’re the lives of real people. I’m not… I’m not making that up. Why are they more real than me? They’re not more real than you. Am I more real than you? No. I think we’re all equal in that I think we’re all as real as each other.
In between these atmospheric moments, something coheres in your head, a nightmarish thought. Is this our future?