A few years back, as I was devouring the sensational bestselling novel Gone Girl, I’d look up at my husband Josh and think, I love him and I’m so glad I married him and he must be punished. Later, when Josh was reading the book, I would catch him looking at me the same way. It’s an amazing read, because the brilliant author, Gillian Flynn, pretty much makes the case that human beings are terrible creatures, and that marriage only makes them worse.
The new movie based on the book is also terrific – it’s like watching a wonderfully attractive young couple having an all-out brawl in a Restoration Hardware showroom. Ben Affleck and Rosamund Pike play the couple, and they’re both sort-of writers, exiled to a big gorgeous house in Missouri, and the movie asks the question: would you sell your soul for a really great kitchen? Ben is a handsome, aging lout, who wears button-downs over his frat-boy t-shirts. In the book, if I remember correctly, the character describes himself as being the kind of guy you want to punch in the face, and that’s why Ben is so perfect – he’s a puppydog sleazebag. Rosamund is a stunning, seductive sociopath wearing very expensive panties, and I know just what you’re wondering: did Rosamund follow me around, for research.
The book includes so many wild plot twists that it could have been retitled Spoiler Alert, and the movie follows suit. Even though I always knew what was coming, I still had a blast; plus, I could enjoy the smug tingle of dissecting the movie vs. the book as I was watching it. The movie is also incredibly well cast, with all sorts of delicious actors, like Tyler Perry and Neal Patrick Harris, popping up in surprising roles. Gone Girl was directed by David Fincher, who’s made heavenly movies like Fight Club and The Social Network; he’s a born movie director, as if he wouldn’t leave the womb until the lighting was perfect.
After we saw Gone Girl, I asked Josh if he ever wanted to murder me, and he replied, “You mean, during the movie, when you wouldn’t stop elbowing me and whispering, ‘Oh, oh, oh, do you remember this part from the book?'” Then he asked if I ever wanted to kill him, in an especially diabolical manner, and I just smiled and said, “Of course not, darling. And we need to buy new steak knives. Big ones.” I feel that a successful marriage is just like a great Hollywood thriller, because they both depend on lies, editing and careful camera angles during sex. Gone Girl should be a downer, but it’s a fabulous aphrodisiac, because there’s nothing that can jumpstart a humdrum relationship like some shattered glass and a secret diary. Gone Girl proves that the three most romantic words in the English language aren’t “I love you”, but “Watch your back”, if you ask me.
