Funny how life passes in the spaces between our viewings of great films.
By my calculation, I would have been 18 years old when I first saw The Remains of the Day. I’m not confident of this, but I am pretty sure I spent my first Christmas vacation home from college reading this novel and then rushing out from my parents’ home to see the film by myself. Typical for one who was both movie-crazy and a joyful introvert, I treasured chances to see movies in dark theaters by myself. I remember liking the movie, and I wonder now how much I might have identified with Mr. Stevens who haunts private corners of Darlington Hall reading romance novels.
Now as I watch for the second time, I am 47 years old. This time I watch Mr. Stevens with a more acute awareness of what it means to remember and to find regret scattered throughout the things remembered. Parallel to that memory track in my mind, though, is the one that takes me to the realization that I value people and relationships much more than I once did. I have a wife and three children, and I hope and pray they will be spared from the pain of ever having to wait for me to rise to my feet after bowing down to dubious or destructive ideals.
