The Time Traveller’s Reluctant Spouse

Time travel is, of course, entirely possible, even believable. Perhaps I’m unusual (thanks everyone, the chorus, almost roar, can be heard a century hence) but when I was a child, I imagined that time was elastic, twisting effortlessly like a cosmic Mobius strip. I saw myself, drifting improbably, at breathtaking speed, travelling – sometimes with, sometimes without a companion, a mentor, an angel, if you will, into the vastnesses of space and time, untroubled by acceleration, heat or cold. I had no problem visualising Einstein’s ‘fabric’ of spacetime, I’d been there, a cosmic tourist, a mildly curious and impartial observer.
Robert Schwentke’s beautifully directed “The Time Traveler’s Wife’ had about it echoes of home, strange familiarity. Much as my own imaginings in the cosmos did not concern themselves with the tedious mechanisms by which it all happened, so the viewer is spared the agony of attempting to explain all the paradoxical comings and goings. It ‘just happens’ – the genetic anomaly of the eponymous Chicago librarian whose wife is the subject is not dwelt upon; he appears and disappears at will. Thus, much as I was, one is freed to enjoy the ride, not least because of the theme music – the graceful and evocative echo from childhood Christmases, Est Ist Ein Ros’ Ensprungen – the Victorian words beautifully melding with Michael Praetorius’ score of 1599 – full of Lutheran simplicity. I thought the image itself good enough to publish and the ancient score can actually be followed. Joy.

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