What's your daughter's name?
June 9, 2015 4:24 PM Subscribe
Just press the big button in the middle and then the star. Dotty - A short film by New Zealand filmmakers Mick Andrews and Brett O'Gorman.
Yeah, the blurb calling it "funny and touching" ... is not good.
posted by Joe in Australia at 6:53 PM on June 9, 2015
posted by Joe in Australia at 6:53 PM on June 9, 2015
Yes, the blurb sucks and it is a sad film but it's so beautifully acted.
posted by h00py at 7:06 PM on June 9, 2015
posted by h00py at 7:06 PM on June 9, 2015
I tried to get my grandmother using linux after her computer died and I built a replacement for her out of parts I had lying around.
She didn't get very far, but god bless her she tried.
posted by zookeeper at 7:26 PM on June 9, 2015
She didn't get very far, but god bless her she tried.
posted by zookeeper at 7:26 PM on June 9, 2015
Sweet but sad, and still somehow very enjoyable to watch.
posted by Secretariat at 7:27 PM on June 9, 2015
posted by Secretariat at 7:27 PM on June 9, 2015
Random trivia – Brett is the brother of Dean O'Gorman – Fili from The Hobbit films.
posted by Wataki at 10:17 PM on June 9, 2015
posted by Wataki at 10:17 PM on June 9, 2015
That was so lovely. I've been trying to come up with a name or verb for the experience of going into something totally unawares, and then coming out of it in a mess of tears and emotion. Innocently clicking that link is a prime example. 'Blindsided by feels' is the best I've got so far.
posted by missmary6 at 10:31 PM on June 9, 2015 [1 favorite]
posted by missmary6 at 10:31 PM on June 9, 2015 [1 favorite]
I was smiling along for the most part, because the combination of the rest home, the accents, and the way Dotty was dressed reminded me of my grandmother, who died a few years ago. When she started reading the message aloud, I realised, as did my husband, and I lost it.
Can't watch again, but it was lovely and bittersweet.
posted by tracicle at 3:42 AM on June 10, 2015
Can't watch again, but it was lovely and bittersweet.
posted by tracicle at 3:42 AM on June 10, 2015
Accents? What accents?
My beloved mother is about the same age as this lady, and she sends texts painlessly (but admits making an actual call would confuse her) and she uses a tablet to help do crosswords. I will know when this is all too much for her, and that she is shutting down, but for now, she's a joy to have a conversation with.
As I said to her tonight, "you know you're not gaga yet when you notice everyone else is".
posted by arzakh at 6:30 AM on June 10, 2015
My beloved mother is about the same age as this lady, and she sends texts painlessly (but admits making an actual call would confuse her) and she uses a tablet to help do crosswords. I will know when this is all too much for her, and that she is shutting down, but for now, she's a joy to have a conversation with.
As I said to her tonight, "you know you're not gaga yet when you notice everyone else is".
posted by arzakh at 6:30 AM on June 10, 2015
arzakh, now that I'm not living in NZ I don't get to hear it much!
My Nana had terrible arthritis and couldn't do much with her fingers at all. But I had many of these slow conversations with her about other things, like how to get money out of the bank, or use her eftpos card, or set up her answering machine. I'm not a patient person; it was good practice.
posted by tracicle at 9:17 AM on June 10, 2015
My Nana had terrible arthritis and couldn't do much with her fingers at all. But I had many of these slow conversations with her about other things, like how to get money out of the bank, or use her eftpos card, or set up her answering machine. I'm not a patient person; it was good practice.
posted by tracicle at 9:17 AM on June 10, 2015
Hurts. It's beautiful but goddamn it hurts.
My father. His younger brother died at like 73, and almost weightless, and filled with unreal terror. His twin sister got nailed at about 75.
My fathers twin sister was like the woman in this movie, not filled with terror; she lived in her childhood and in her early teens. When she fell and broke her hip, she was out of bed the next day, walking -- it'd mercifully blown out the bits of her brain that tell a person when they've broken their hip yesterday.
Alz, along with an inoperable brain tumor, finally began to tear into my father at about 82. We should have taken the keys from his hands long before we did; a terrible accident, wherein he looked right at the oncoming car then pulled into its path -- that day we took the keys. No serious injuries but it could have been fatal.
Taking the keys from his hands just about destroyed him, his sense of who he was. Though that was fading like an old color picture anyways. But taking the keys, a lot of color drained from that photo so, so fast on that day.
It was mercifully fast. Maybe another two years. At the end, it was really heading into the fears, the terrors his younger brother ended his days with.
Oddly, he came back to reality in prayer. We'd be talking -- I'm thinking specifically about one conversation as I type this in, I had to pull my truck to the side of the road, my guts aching, my heart breaking -- we'd be talking and he didn't remember who I was, or it would come and go, but then he's say "Let's pray." and we did, and he knew exactly who I was, he prayed for the people nailed by Katrina in New Orleans, he prayed for continual healing for my heart, thanked god for the physicians who fixed me up, for their skills, asked for grace for his family members. Etc and etc. In prayer, my father was there. He was home. He was inhabiting his body. Then, prayer time over, he's gone again.
I'm not religious -- my father was pretty much your standard devout Christian but heavily into prayer, more-so I think than your garden variety Christian staggering down the street. Anyways, I'm not religious but I do pray, and I do meditate. Call home, as it were, check in, get my marching orders. I have no idea of what any of this is or how it works. To define god is to defile god. Not my business. But I do call home, when I think of it, and have a better day when I do...
I'm a long way from that movie -- put a keyboard in my hands and I'm a hazard....
My mother died just over a year ago, going on 94. Lots of physical pain but razor sharp, I spoke with her in the early afternoon of the day she died, we had a nice conversation, she told me about a book she'd just started reading. I want my head genetics from her line. It'd only be fair -- I got my bad cardiac artery from her side, staying sharp til I leave the scene doesn't seem that much to ask. Time will tell, yes?
If it starts happening to me, I'm outta here. I'll say my goodbyes and pull the plug. Someone wants my eyes, I'd love for someone to see Monet, or their daughters smile maybe ...
posted by dancestoblue at 9:08 PM on June 10, 2015 [1 favorite]
My father. His younger brother died at like 73, and almost weightless, and filled with unreal terror. His twin sister got nailed at about 75.
My fathers twin sister was like the woman in this movie, not filled with terror; she lived in her childhood and in her early teens. When she fell and broke her hip, she was out of bed the next day, walking -- it'd mercifully blown out the bits of her brain that tell a person when they've broken their hip yesterday.
Alz, along with an inoperable brain tumor, finally began to tear into my father at about 82. We should have taken the keys from his hands long before we did; a terrible accident, wherein he looked right at the oncoming car then pulled into its path -- that day we took the keys. No serious injuries but it could have been fatal.
Taking the keys from his hands just about destroyed him, his sense of who he was. Though that was fading like an old color picture anyways. But taking the keys, a lot of color drained from that photo so, so fast on that day.
It was mercifully fast. Maybe another two years. At the end, it was really heading into the fears, the terrors his younger brother ended his days with.
Oddly, he came back to reality in prayer. We'd be talking -- I'm thinking specifically about one conversation as I type this in, I had to pull my truck to the side of the road, my guts aching, my heart breaking -- we'd be talking and he didn't remember who I was, or it would come and go, but then he's say "Let's pray." and we did, and he knew exactly who I was, he prayed for the people nailed by Katrina in New Orleans, he prayed for continual healing for my heart, thanked god for the physicians who fixed me up, for their skills, asked for grace for his family members. Etc and etc. In prayer, my father was there. He was home. He was inhabiting his body. Then, prayer time over, he's gone again.
I'm not religious -- my father was pretty much your standard devout Christian but heavily into prayer, more-so I think than your garden variety Christian staggering down the street. Anyways, I'm not religious but I do pray, and I do meditate. Call home, as it were, check in, get my marching orders. I have no idea of what any of this is or how it works. To define god is to defile god. Not my business. But I do call home, when I think of it, and have a better day when I do...
I'm a long way from that movie -- put a keyboard in my hands and I'm a hazard....
My mother died just over a year ago, going on 94. Lots of physical pain but razor sharp, I spoke with her in the early afternoon of the day she died, we had a nice conversation, she told me about a book she'd just started reading. I want my head genetics from her line. It'd only be fair -- I got my bad cardiac artery from her side, staying sharp til I leave the scene doesn't seem that much to ask. Time will tell, yes?
If it starts happening to me, I'm outta here. I'll say my goodbyes and pull the plug. Someone wants my eyes, I'd love for someone to see Monet, or their daughters smile maybe ...
posted by dancestoblue at 9:08 PM on June 10, 2015 [1 favorite]
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