This is a very sensitive and original `coming of age' film, centered around a seventeen-year-old boy seeking to find meaning in his life. His mom had been, in her youth, a self-absorbed, dope-smoking and thrill-seeking Bohemian, who fell for an equally superficial and pretentious pseudo-intellectual of the writer variety, and by the time he went out for a pack of cigarettes never to return, she had found herself pregnant. That would have been the end of her story had mom been a pauper, but her family had money, so by the time the story opens the son had been shuttled around through every prep-school in the country. He never knew his father, and what he knew about his mother was that she never grew up.
What little his mother would say about his father were myths, which he clings to desperately in this story. Had his father `really' been a writer? All he has for proof is an old typewriter, on which he tries to write letters to his father that are never mailed. The whereabouts of the father are not known. Estranged and alienated from his parents, he ends up in an apartment where he can begin to find himself through associations with others who have complicated stories of their own to share. Not surprisingly, he falls in love with an older woman who is much like his mother: self-absorbed and addicted to dysfunctional relationships. Almost as though to redeem his mother through the woman, he tries to prove himself the better man to her, in contrast to the slick and quick former boyfriend, with his leather clothes and hot guitar. He is a nice guy that wants to finish better, not last. It is a very mature and well-crafted story.
