美国最权威影评人rogar ebert又在twitter上谈起了remember me，这已经不是第一次了，他推荐了一篇他自己比较同意的博文。
MARCH 29, 2010 7:48PM
See "Remember Me." (BIG HONKIN' SPOILER ALERT)
So, I covered the Van Morrison “sing-alike” Pattinson did—see my previous entry or go to my list of links. That was fun, but...frivolous.
This time, I’m going to get a little more serious to “review” his latest film. Because I think that no matter how you feel about him, or what critics have said, Remember Me, his latest film, is worth experiencing.
Pattinson says, to everyone who asks, that he made the film for a reason that I actually really liked. And respected. He said that when he first read it, he kept thinking, as I did for the first few minutes while watching it: “Why…would anyone write this?” And, characteristically for this enigmatic young actor, he kept reading to find out instead of ringing up and bawling out his agent for wasting his time.

Now…it’s not a bad little story. But the fledgling screenwriter in me kept saying, “Ok, so what?” And then, “Ok…nice little scene, but…so…what?”
I mean, the lead is an engaging kid. A cool kid. A kid who keeps you kinda guessing what he’ll do next, and kinda grudgingly pleased with what he finally does do, every time. But…the story is so…spare. It's…just what people do. Everyday. And nobody writes a movie about it.
But in the end...that’s what it has to be. Because in the end…well…the end is where you truly realize why the rest of is was…what it was.
The conundrum is how to tell you why without spoiling the whole thing for you. Because if you’re going to trust my judgment and go, you need to have the experience I had. With my daughter—that’s an important part of this. Her reaction was, for me, worth the price of admission. And probably just exactly why it was written, period.

And the bona fide spoiler material begins right here. You see, on the morning of 9/11, my daughter was blithely headed for another day at school when I ran to stop her and said, “Just…gimme a minute. We may be at war or something—STAY PUT!”
She rolled her eyes. Did that folded arm, one hip stuck out thing very young women seem to have a patent on, and said, “I have to gooooooooo, Mom.” Now, I had an artist friend in New York City who lived very close to the Towers, so my reaction had something to do with that. But mostly, it had to do with having seen the second plane hit just after the live shots of the first hit had begun. And hearing whichever of the big time talking heads I was watching that morning say, point blank and with chilling calm, “This is no accident, ladies and gentlemen. This…is an act of war.”
Now, I wasn’t around during Pearl Harbor. I’m a Nam baby. But I suddenly understood, as I watched that second plane hit a tower, how my parents and their entire generation must have felt that day when they heard the news.


But they only heard it. I was watching it. And I was so many kinds of scared that I couldn’t even express them to my daughter. My eyes finally kinda clued her in.
I’m a cool cuke, for the most part. She knows only two looks from me that mean: "RUN!" One is an angry but calm glare. The other is the same glare, a little more intense, with chin raised and eyes narrowed.
She had never seen me look at her the way I did that day. And she didn’t know how to react to it. I looked, I am sure, like someone trying to be brave while also thinking about a million possibilities—and possible actions—at once. Unfocused, wary--that mother and "cub" instinct thing, kicking in.
Still…she sighed and insisted that she needed to leave, that nothing was happening. There were no sirens, for one thing. And the emergency alert thing they annoyingly tested whenever we were just getting into some show, which always promisedto come on in the event of an attack, hadn’t.

I finally relented, but remained glued to the television set as I tried to get dresssed and out of the door myself. I went to work listening to a news station and not my usual downloaded .mp3 book of the moment.
And when I got to the high school I was teaching in at that time, the kids there, unlike my daughter, couldn’t concentrate on anything else, either.
I turned to CNN, and they tried, bless ‘em, to read their literature books. They were worried about my friend. They were worried about what it must have been like to be in those burning buildings. They thought they saw people jumping. They did see people jumping.
Girls put their heads down. Boys couldn't put their heads down. They were waiting for a helicopter to fly over and grab people out of windows. They knew nobody could fly over and grab people out of windows. They were, finally, really waiting for someone to tell them it was a movie. An Orson Welles, War of the Worlds trick.

And then the first tower fell. Girls screamed. Boys cried, “Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaammmmmmmmnnnnnn…”
I sat down because my knees wouldn’t hold me. What I was seeing was incomprehensible. And the rest of the day, I existed in a strange fog. I didn’t really know what to say or do or feel. I wasn’t numb. I was simply stymied senseless, trying to make meaning out of something which we would not be able to make sense of…ever, really.
We made it through the day somehow and I got home and waited for my daughter, whose phone had been off throughout her classes, to make it home so that we could talk about the whole awful business. My artist friend was fine. Now, we just needed to be with each other, I thought, and work this through.
And when she finally made it home, I went to her at once. I wanted to hold her and talk. I wanted to reassure her, and get her take on all this.

I got it. Her take was, “God, Mom! I mean…you weren’t THERE or anything!”
I couldn’t believe I was hearing this. I stared. And she sighed and said that she and her friends all kinda felt the same way. She “hated” to say this, but…there was something unreal about it. It was too much like a disaster movie. “I know you don’t wanna hear this…” she said, leaving that sentence hanging in the air.
I didn’t. She was right. So I walked away. And suffered in silence, alone.
Cut to…a few years later. We’re sitting in the theater watching Fahrenheit 9/11, a little bit too close to the screen because there’d been such a long line we had to take the only two seats we could find.
She was watching intently, intrigued by the play-by-play and incensed, finally, by some of the things she was trying to make sense of. She’d nod now and then, snort now and then—she was clearly with the rest of the die hard liberals who’d queued up for hours to see it. But intellectually. Politically. I didn’t sense, still, any emotional involvement.

Until the screen went black. The ROAR of the first plane was heard. And the horrific, ground shaking, bone rattling sound of impact shook the theater.
The only sound I really heard, though, was my daughter gasping, and then choking back but finally, bursting into loud sobs.
She was THERE. She FELT it. Finally.
If you see Remember Me…you may feel it, in a very different way this time, too. She did. And she cried again.
"Oh, man," she said, a tremble in the voice. "I can't take this..."
Neither could I. And I cannot, will not watch it again.
But I’m glad I was intrigued enough, like Pattinson, to ride it out once. And remember.

这个故事和另一个外粉讲的相似。作者亲历的911,当时她还有朋友在纽约，她吓坏了，特别伤心，她希望女儿不要出门，因为这很可能是战争来临的信号。但是他女儿却对911无感，认为那离自己很遥远。
而看remember me的时候，她女儿却真真切切的感受到了911带来的伤痛，了解的911对于美国人心灵的创伤。