I read Kazuo Ishiguro's brilliant Never Let Me Go this week and then I watched the film version, which stars the dueling bangs of Carrie Mulligan and Keira Knightley, and I've since been thinking about how the pacing required of a film often results in a kind of filmic silence. So, instead of hearing about Halisham's misty fields in Kathy H's subdued voice, we play witness to a series of shots that establish the permanent gray-day-ness and overgrown grass-ness and oversized cardigans of the setting. It's a strangely language-less experience--especially after navigating a book that relies so heavily on the tiny, intimate exchanges of the three primary characters. And it was a silence that was appropriate to the content, but I missed Kathy H's internal cacophony. Diagnosis: I didn't wait long enough to see the film. It did, though, make me cry into my bathrobe sleeve--something my husband was gentlemanly enough to pretend not to notice--and regret my decision of three years ago to never let myself get bangs again.