Valentine’s Day is traditionally the time when the cynical eye-rollers gather around to laugh at the weaklings clutching cards that espouse either stomach heaving sentiment (“You complete me”) or aspire to sound vaguely threatening (“You’re mine… forever”). They have a good laugh at how cheaply-made romance is, how store-bought, unoriginal and deeply, deeply foolish. Any suggestion of romantic feeling and those eye-rollers will momentarily pause their eye contortions, if only to give you a look that indicates you are absolutely out of your mind. Literature promised us that the majority of our relationships were to be spent waiting in a frantic panic for our lovers to return from war, so we could passionately embrace in the rain. It did not tell us that actually most of our time will be spent waiting for our lovers to return from Tesco so we can dispassionately embrace the washing-up. We learnt the language of love from a young age ( flowers… say flowers), and now we feel cheated by this slow and unkempt reality. Sadly, facing the impossibility of forbidding passion, we tend to be dismissive and derisive of the real thing. However, in I (heart) Alice (heart) I, there are no indulgent fantasies, no ‘this is the way its supposed to be’ whims, just two women sincerely reaping the rewards of intimacy.
I (heart) Alice is a pseudo-style documentary that follows the lives of two women after a rash decision in the marmalade aisle of the local supermarket. Alice and Alice deign to tell us the story that led up to that moment and all the moments in-between. Incorporating death, dreams, Dusty Springfield and a particularly vigorous trip to London, I (heart) Alice, is at once deeply personal and entirely universal. It is a moving story, a very funny story, but most of all, it is a love story.
The Alices’ language is distinctly their own, private and sad, yet layered with such loving detail that it is immediately inviting. Amy Conroy has a proficiency for language that is capable of moving beyond words, that unearths the sense and feeling of a situation with ease. Claire Barrett as Alice Slattery is endearingly awkward, and the guilt she feels over her former husband is acutely and touchingly described. Amy Conroy as Alice Kinsella is equally impressive delivering an understated performance, perfectly attuned with her partner’s mannerisms and tics. At times, the direction feels stilted and restrained with the only interaction between the two being a shy nod or a coy smile, however the content more than makes up for the lack of theatrical tricks. Accusations may be leveled that the Alices are desexualized, reduced to a recording describing their initial sexual encounter, but to suggest this would be to miss the point by miles and miles. The Alices are not totem poles on which to run up any gay agenda, ‘they are here and they have been here all along.’ They have moved beyond justifications. They would rather have some cake, thanks.
Ultimately, the Alices have a desire not to cheapen or belittle their love, to give it away until it is no longer their own. They will continue to draw up lists, argue over nothing, travel, sit on an overstuffed couch. They will carry on being boring. It probably won’t sell greeting cards but it gives us the opportunity to look at real love, close up.
Nicole Flattery
