I fell in love with Cold Souls. The film is about Paul Giamatti (who plays himself) who stores away his heavy soul in order to play Uncle Vanya. (As one might expect, doing Chekhov without one's soul doesn't quite work.) As it turns out, soul trade is a big business, and the souls of actors and Russian poets are particularly desirable. When Giamatti's soul goes missing, he needs to figure out who he is.
How odd, though, that Cold Souls is labeled a comedy. Sure, there were plenty of funny moments in it, and I guess as a whole the story is bordering on the absurd, but essentially the film addresses probably one of the biggest problems humanity faces these days. We are preoccupied with success, perceptions and outside standards instead of knowing ourselves, being true to ourselves. What has the world come to when talking about souls in the first place seems almost ridiculous? How poor, how cynical have our internal worlds become, and for what? When Paul Giamatti has his soul removed he has the option to look inside before the operation, but he decides not to. I wonder how many of us human beings have alienated ourselves from our own lives to the extent that looking into our own soul would be an unbearable idea.