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What you can't quite tell from the typed-out dialogue is the bitchy delivery: These two are looking daggers at each other and snarling each syllable. Why? I don't know, exactly. It's probably supposed to be dramatic. Or erotic. Anyway, Noel stomps off. There are no natural entrances or exits in this film: just barging in and stomping off.

The beach and the carpet — Noel is walking along the beach. She doesn't appear to be enjoying herself, but that's because she's walking very stiffly. Get it yet? She's tidy and repressed, while Claire is a mess of sensuality. It might remind you of a little film called Desert Hearts. Or it would, if the acting and writing were better.

The sand of the beach fades into the rug of the carpet Claire is walking on. Uh, nice transition, I guess.

Claire is making coffee, grinding the beans dramatically. Noel sneaks into the scene (guess I was wrong about the barging).

Noel: You're up.
Claire: I am upright. Did the noise bother you?
Noel: I was about to take a break.
Claire: Been at it long?
Noel: Since 5.
Claire: Jesus, that's obscene.
Noel: Perhaps you might grind your coffee at night.

Wow, good comeback, Noel.

A tête-à-tête — Craggy and Noel are talking. Not just talking: talking in front of the fire, over glasses of wine, in low light. That's how you know it's a deep conversation.

Craggy's mumbling something about brooding and the objet de passion, but it doesn't really make much sense because a scene was cut out here. Not that I've seen the Making Of thing. Surely I wouldn't waste time on that.

Let's get to the important stuff: Noel wants to know why Craggy put her in the same cabin as Claire.

Noel: She's rude. Disorganized, cluttered. She smokes like a truck driver. She's so … straight.
Craggy: But interesting?
Noel: About as interesting as a black widow.
Craggy: Dangerous, huh?
Noel: Intolerable.
Craggy: [after a dramatic sip of wine] I knew you'd like her.

Pondering — See Claire stand on a rock and watch the waves and think. See Claire stare out the window and smoke and think. Listen to the ponderous piano and think. But whatever you do, don't listen to the dialogue and try to think.

Claire: Noel?
Noel: Hmm?
Claire: I'm sorry. I mean about earlier.
Noel: It's not a problem.
Claire: It is, actually. I get so … it's like nothing else exists.

That's how I feel when I watch this movie. But without the “else”: this movie makes me feel like nothing exists. Certainly not art or talent or good movies, anyway.

The trash meet, and also just the trash — The writers are, according to Craggy, “get[ting] the dirt.” But someone is conspicuously absent: Claire is at the Hump Whale Inn, chatting up a reasonably nice, reasonably cute guy. I sorta feel sorry for him.

B.J., Craggy's girlfriend, reads something about “the two-step of communication,” and the fact that English does not have enough words to “accurately accommodate subtlety, nuance.” The condescending way she reads it just bugs me. I would try to explain myself further, but there are no words that can truly capture the nuances of my emotions. Except maybe “unutterably annoyed.”

Lynn, the housewife, whines about being busy with housework and the twins and all the other things that keep her from writing. She's working on a sci-fi novel in which men are the second sex and …

What? Sorry, I fell asleep for a minute there.

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