I was compelled to rewatch Igby Goes Down after Kieran Culkin made an appearance hosting on SNL a couple weeks back. This film is like a Salinger short about fucked up rich people. They’re interesting, but they are the damned. The world has ruined them by giving them too much of a good deal. And the intelligent child, prodded by his especially intense Father’s flailings under the yoke of this life, sees his way out. If you’re at the party of your rich philandering and moralistic-hypocritical Uncle (Jeff Goldblum) – run off and chat up the caterer. She isn’t going to lie to you about why she’s there, for one. Best moment, ‘Clove cigarettes!’ Igby exults her choice, “Excellent. Can I bum one?”
No.
What is it about rejection that makes the oppressive acceptance of a self-destructive milleu, dithering assholes who offer you… bla.. support… financial assistance… and nepotistic favors… so welcoming. Like a plastic bag over the head of one who seeks death but is too inured to the pharmacopia.
There is something to the philosophy of seeking out situations where one specifically can find rejection, alienation, and discomforting truth. If the love you are offered is a desperate measure, one might fare better out among the desperate times.
But what is of importance here is Igby’s sincerity. How fucked up can your life be before you run? Or, how strong can your desire for that oxygen be that makes you a witness to freedom – at the cost of your own self-care.
This is a comforting film, about a subject that only finds joy in convalescence. The need to claw one’s way back to something real, when one is offered sacred cows that give only poison milk.
And the inexplicability of forgiveness, fraught with overdose posology.
The Haunted Typewriter 