Tonight found me back at my good ol’ alternative theater, the one hidden away in a random little suburb dotted with happy-looking homes and streets peppered with an inordinate amount of baby strollers. I watched “Reprise” a sometimes frenetic, sometimes dark, yet strangely funny Norwegian film about two writers on the cusp of their careers, and the infinitely branched possibility trees of their lives. Definitely worth seeing.
On my drive back through nearly-deserted streets, my eyes were inadvertently drawn to the license plates of the occasional vehicles that’d whiz by, searching for a dash of red, but finding dull whiteness instead.
