If I’m on a plane that crashes and I somehow manage to escape without a scratch despite almost every other passenger being killed or severely injured, I would take a few moments to collect myself…five or ten minutes, I mean. Then I would submit to what I imagine would be absolute happiness. Nothing but pure joy and relief.
The remainder of my life would be a radiant celebration of the mere, magnificent fact that I’m alive. (Which is what we should all be feeling anyway.) I would become a perfect…make that an imperfect smile. I would tingle with ecstasy at every sensation, every thought…every sight, sound and aroma…the precious symphony of living.
What does Jeff Bridges do when he survives a catastrophic plane crash in Peter Weir‘s Fearless (’93)? He becomes a sullen, moody, withdrawn shithead. He snaps at people, looks at them sideways, crawls into his own cave, makes life miserable for poor Isabella Rossellini and generally becomes an asshole. Thanks, Jeff!