by Anne Taylor
Editor’s Note: Spoilers Ahead
I first saw Interstellar alone. I sat rapt in the front row for three hours. I left the theater dazed. I sat in my car, contemplated my keys, took one big breath and began to cry from the core of myself. It would not be an overstatement to say that I wept. Hard. For minutes. It wasn’t about Interstellar, not the story, the plot, the characters. In those minutes I didn’t care about some bullshit movie—though it was undoubtedly the catalyst for this deep, tidal wave of grief. Interstellar captured and conveyed utter loneliness in a way no movie ever has for me (and in a way that Interstellar itself will never be able to do again).
The movie opens with memories, dust, and a sea of corn. Here we see our first landscape of loneliness: Earth. The Earth has nothing left…
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