The novel, by the poet James Dickey, flows like the river at the centre of the plot; lush and vivid, it is an achingly beautiful story about survival and the disparate nature of urban life and our more primal instincts. The kind of book that compels one to write things like, "an achingly beautiful story about survival and the disparate nature of urban life and our more primal instincts".
And, the movie is almost, like super close to being just as good as the book. So good, I forget that Jon Voight is a total dick-hole. So good, it makes me think that maybe, just maybe, I could love movies.
But, alas, I don't love movies. There are movies that I love but as a whole, I rarely opt to watch them and when I do I'm so very often disappointed. Although, I do find it really difficult to stop talking for two hours the reason is a bit more complex.
