So what it all boils down to, when the celluloid's been simmering for twelve hours and the water's long since headed for the ceiling, look there, it drips down past the light fixtures, what a man sees in the steam cast from Todd Solondz' Palindromes, is a hypothesis something 'long the lines of no, we never change. The point to be made, aye, seems to be all 'bout how the essence, the soul, whatever the hell name a man wants to pin to what is, nonetheless, The Balls Of One's Character, it's the same at death as it was at birth.
For sure, says Palindromes, we might look like we changed, maybe we lost a leg in a drunken knife-fight with a Jehovah's Witness, maybe we shaved our heads, maybe we grew absurd emo fringes and started mopin' 'bout the place like puddles with pulses, but our nature is, was and will always be.
One day a man's up to the eyes in The Queen Is Dead, the next he's making a living as a marriage counselor denouncing Morrissey and everything the bequiffed fuck ever stood for.
But still, inside the brain-paste, maybe he doesn't admit it, but he's still the same. He was a shit then and he's a shit now, just a different shade is all.
Shit borne in corn flakes or shit borne in curry spiced wi Hell's granite, it's still shit.
So Todd Solondz sat muttering and battering typewriters left and right cross Solondz HQ, what he decided is that no, he'll be fucked green in the knees if he'll make a picture that doesn't address these notions, each and every one.
So what he does is he creates Palindromes, see, he takes this whole Never-Really-Changing train a thought and steers it in the direction of a fairly bleak and yet weirdly touching fable about abortion and paedophilia and Jesus freaks.
What he gets to assuming is that if he's gonna talk about The Inner and all that sorta metaphysical jazz, he's gonna have us pay little or no attention to The Outer, so fuck it, best way to go about it all is to have a buncha actors of varying genders and races and sizes play the same character, a young girl, very young, by the name of Aviva, cept sometimes she's called Henrietta or Dawn.
I get on the phone sometimes around midnight on Saturday, get to talking to a fella by the name of Synopsis, don't speak in nothing but plot points, helps me out when I got all sortsa thoughts on a particular motion flick but I'll be fucked if I could tell you what it's about.