My Life Without Me

If you are fortunate enough to possess a satellite digibox, then congratulations! Your preferences in TV are being constantly monitored by a Rupert Murdoch-owned outfit and passed on to sinister marketing types, who now know all about your secret sexual weakness for chicken costumes and intend to bombard you with junk-mail advertisements featuring plumage of all kinds. Or possibly blackmail your sick ass, but that’s the least of your troubles. Although it may be the only way to access your beloved Bundesliga, you constantly risk exposure to such televisual delights as Red, Hot And Forty-Plus, the Men & Motors channel or God TV.
Most mindnumbing of all, though, among these niche saddo networks, are housewife ‘favourites’ like the Hallmark channel, which churn out shocking sub-TV3 true-life stories with titles such as Who Will Love My Children?, Why Are All Men Nasty? and It’s All My Husband’s Fault. These insipid weepies invariably feature the tragic young mother of a brood of wide-eyed urchins bravely battling whatever terminal illness is making the headlines this week, as long as it doesn’t involve too much goo. The genre is generally intended for those who find the music of The Beautiful South too dark and edgy, so it’s hugely surprising that My Life Without Me, with its remarkably similar, Hallmark-alike premise and title, is so engaging.
Indie sector queen (or rather indie princess, behind Misses Posey and Sevigny) Sarah Polley (The Sweet Hereafter, Go) is a 23 year old mother of two diagnosed with an aggressive, terminal tumour. She decides to keep her condition secret from everyone including her beloved husband (Speedman) and white trash mom (Harry), compiles a to-do list for her remaining time and embarks on a heartbreakingly tender affair with lost soul Lee (Ruffalo).
So far, so Dying Young. But My Life Without Me studiously avoids bringing out the big violins in favour of contemplative, cerebral dialogue and naturalism. The Dogme-ish lo-fi aesthetic initially makes one wonder how riotous Spanish filmmaker Pedro Almodovar ended up as producer, but the low-key style grounds the high melodrama, allowing for credible moments of magic realism (supermarket shoppers sweeping into dance) and highly-charged romance without the slush.
The hip, yet able cast work wonders for the cause, turning in smart, understated performances. Ruffalo and Polley make for brilliant aching lovers, and director Coixet deserves equal praise for pulling all the film’s contadictory impulses together to fashion a life-affirming love-story which doesn’t require a sick-bucket. Or a satellite dish.