Whenever a new Tom Hanks movie is about to come to a theater, I don’t bother watching previews. For me, Hanks’ reputation as an all-star actor has never been sullied. He impresses me as being an actor’s actor.
In other words, I refuse to watch as an uninvolved critic.
Last night, when I experienced A Man Called Otto, I related to scene after scene at an emotional level. In return, Hanks caused me to revisit many pivotal moments in my life, meaningful moments that have been safely compartmentalized in a well-protected area of my heart.
Perhaps I should have known I would be in tears throughout A Man Called Otto. Maybe I should have brought enough Kleenex to contain them all.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I let the drama unfold inside and outside of me. Even the predictable part about Otto’s faulty heart since mine is faulty too.
In many ways, A Man Called Otto served as a reminder that the best movies don’t have sequels. Like To Kill a Mockingbird, it couldn’t.
Seldom do I urge anyone not to miss a movie. But this time, regarding A Man Called Otto, I must.