"You!--what are you doing!" I said, coughing as I did so, giving a quick yell: "now, go to sleep;--I told you--now, I say!--: sleep!" jabbing, blindly, with my elbow.
"Have a coffee--black--; a tea, even. Wake up. Have one."
"No: I do not want drink, nor food, either; no breakfast; no lunch; no dinner;--no drink!--no drink!--no drink!"
"Coffee..." he said, as he opened his eyes, irritatingly, and tapped his head, looking, with eyes a bit closed, through the house; the room as fragile as state.
His disposition, so restrained, irked me (unrestrained): "I don't--damn it--I don't give a damn 'bout coffee!--; I despise you!--: why must every morning be this way?"
"Well, I drink it pure, with a half-spoon of sugar, and enough cream to..."
"You!--silence you--quiet!--quiet!--quiet!" I said, spitting--woke--at the air, so gray, poor colour; and as I spoke, he slept. "Have a coffee--black--; a tea, even. Wake up. Have one."
This internal monologue--you to you, we to we, me to me--plagues all sleepers; and it seems the parallel to the condition, shape, of a tired old man: Felix Bush. He is, as he has been for quite some time, a shell; he does not celebrate, he does not please, nor does he live; the leavings of questions: "What if? Why? Did I do the right thing? How, oh how, my one, could have I done the right thing?"
In fact, as the film heads to point, he introduces himself with a question: "'Ta hell you doin' here?" He directs this to Buddy Robinson (Lucas Black), following some 'warning' gunfire, which neared the latter man's head. Felix is a local enigma, but the town is aware that he is a man that does not fire a second warning shot.
Buddy, along with a dry Frank Quinn, played very, very wittily by Bill Murray, are there to provide funeral services, which Felix, stirred by a known death, had queried about around town. He wants a living funeral, which he will attend, and where guests will share memories, and where he will reveal memories. Old and gray, this is his choice, and perhaps his final one.
Robert Duvall, playing old and gray, is one of the rarest of actors; an actor who cannot 'act,' only embody. For each role, we meet him, and we recognize him, and then we fail to recognize him. Here, as a tired and aged and regretting old man, he leads us down--and through--the lit, stygian waters, dark waters, rowing, rowing, then to the gatekeeper, who does not permit goodbyes, so we wait, silent sit, and Felix, no darker, enters.
4 out of 5 popcorns.