The story of your dad is so relatable. My grandmother died of a stroke and I remember at the viewing people kept patting my dad on the back saying "she looks good steve" . My dad had been very quiet the whole time. After the 10th person to say this to him he snapped and yelled " SHE's NOT fucking HERE" and our whole family just made eye contact and then burst into big belly laughter. Sorry for all your losses. Again well done. A good person was so beautifully written and evoke emotion in all the right places. Thanks again
My mom died from a brain aneurysm when I was 10 years old. She was 36 years old. Drove herself to the hospital for a bad headache on a Monday, got admitted, saw her Thursday night, had surgery on a Friday, and she was gone on Sunday. My dad had to make the decision to take her off life support and he hasn’t been the same since, but quit drinking a few years ago. Thank you for sharing a slice of very relatable life.
My father was diagnosed with cancer suddenly (drs said it was a ‘stomach virus’ for months) and was sent home. In 1 day he forgot who I was - my parents only child; 2 hours later lost his speech; 2 days of moaning in agony. Hospice forgot about us so as I was yelling on the phone to them, I was also administering morphine, and seeing what happens to a body when it dies…except it was that of my best friend, and to my mother, his wife of the past 55 years. Three days later from that first, a nurse told me he must have been holding on for something, and perhaps I should leave for a bit to go have a drink somewhere. Two hours later on 7/31 at 9 pm - on the dot - he was gone. Thank you for making what you do.
Your previous films have broken, repaired, and fueled me. Your take on the beautiful shite-show and humanity of grief is like no other. So naturally, I’m bracing in anticipation to see this one.
All very true. I’ll share a memory with you. When I was eight years old my cousin died in a car accident at just sixteen. My aunt, and entire family was broken. At the end of the services, I ran into a glass pane thinking it was an open door. In humiliation I ran outside (through an actual door) with my nose bleeding fairly profusely, and found my mother in the parking lot consoling my aunt. They immediately turned their attention to my nosebleed. My aunt had nothing on her but a sanitary napkin, and the three of us sat there, me with a giant pad on my little face, and they listened to my story of hitting the glass so hard, being thrown back to the floor, and losing my headband into oblivion. All this I told through a pinched nose covered in a maxi pad. All of a sudden my aunt began to laugh. Like really laugh. She was joined by my mother. I remember (after an initial moment of shock) the incredible sense of hope I had that everything would one day be okay. That memory is precious to me (I like to think my cousin was with us in that moment laughing too) and I have held it dear in hard times as a reminder of the very thing you talk about. We somehow go on. The human spirit, and that thing we call “hope” is truly incredible. I can’t wait to see your film.
I'm in Dublin, Ireland so haven't had the opportunity to see the film yet but am very much looking forward to it. I haven't much to say except Garden State changed my life and put me on a path to being a (aspiring as of now but trying!) screenwriter. I didn't know it at the time but that film rewired my brain, heart and soul in a way I can't explain. I also saw your interview a while back on the Sam Jones Netflix show, and I hoped you would continue to make movies despite the setbacks & arrows sometimes thrown at you. I am so sorry for all your losses & I hope you know how much people admire and respect you, I certainly do and always will.
Bravo Zach! Life is a series of ups and downs, joy and sorrows...it, very simply, is nothing more, nothing less. Love you Zach. Thank you for this superior film. It took breath away! Aunt Jeri
I heard Rick Rubin say something recently that keeps coming up: “when someone says something surprising, we laugh -- even if it’s not funny.”
these moments of raw humanity -- of humour, pain, grief, confusion, hopelessness. they feel so utterly individual and heartbreakingly personal. and yet when someone shares a moment like this, we can all relate. there’s an irony to this, no? how we all know what it feels like to be alone and in pain? that perhaps it is the least unique experience of all, yet it feels piercingly personal?
your films highlight that we all know what it is like to feel alone. and that being alone together might be the best way for us all to heal. to laugh, cry, and heal together through the stories of others. and that when someone says something unexpected, even if it’s not funny, we laugh.
Zach, I watched A Good Person alone in the dark sobbing and smiling. Thank you for writing and creating such an inspirational and authentic movie. When it was over I immediately googled who wrote and directed it, thinking "this takes experience" to have written and lead such an authentic tale of loss, learning, and unlearning. The searching and scrolling brought me here, reading of your heartbreak. Thank you for continuing to give as you heal from your tremendous grief. I am so sorry for your loss. Forever grateful for your love...
A fish died the other day. My daughter said I should say something. So I said “I hope you liked me.”
Your dialogue from 20 years ago still resonated with me. YOU still resonate.
The story of your dad is so relatable. My grandmother died of a stroke and I remember at the viewing people kept patting my dad on the back saying "she looks good steve" . My dad had been very quiet the whole time. After the 10th person to say this to him he snapped and yelled " SHE's NOT fucking HERE" and our whole family just made eye contact and then burst into big belly laughter. Sorry for all your losses. Again well done. A good person was so beautifully written and evoke emotion in all the right places. Thanks again
My mom died from a brain aneurysm when I was 10 years old. She was 36 years old. Drove herself to the hospital for a bad headache on a Monday, got admitted, saw her Thursday night, had surgery on a Friday, and she was gone on Sunday. My dad had to make the decision to take her off life support and he hasn’t been the same since, but quit drinking a few years ago. Thank you for sharing a slice of very relatable life.
My father was diagnosed with cancer suddenly (drs said it was a ‘stomach virus’ for months) and was sent home. In 1 day he forgot who I was - my parents only child; 2 hours later lost his speech; 2 days of moaning in agony. Hospice forgot about us so as I was yelling on the phone to them, I was also administering morphine, and seeing what happens to a body when it dies…except it was that of my best friend, and to my mother, his wife of the past 55 years. Three days later from that first, a nurse told me he must have been holding on for something, and perhaps I should leave for a bit to go have a drink somewhere. Two hours later on 7/31 at 9 pm - on the dot - he was gone. Thank you for making what you do.
Your previous films have broken, repaired, and fueled me. Your take on the beautiful shite-show and humanity of grief is like no other. So naturally, I’m bracing in anticipation to see this one.
Truly one of the most beautiful films. It made me genuinely laugh, genuinely cry.
Beautifully said. Thank you for doing what you do & venturing to tell the stories you do, Zach.
...also, I’m so sorry for the loss of your sister and your friend. 🤍
All very true. I’ll share a memory with you. When I was eight years old my cousin died in a car accident at just sixteen. My aunt, and entire family was broken. At the end of the services, I ran into a glass pane thinking it was an open door. In humiliation I ran outside (through an actual door) with my nose bleeding fairly profusely, and found my mother in the parking lot consoling my aunt. They immediately turned their attention to my nosebleed. My aunt had nothing on her but a sanitary napkin, and the three of us sat there, me with a giant pad on my little face, and they listened to my story of hitting the glass so hard, being thrown back to the floor, and losing my headband into oblivion. All this I told through a pinched nose covered in a maxi pad. All of a sudden my aunt began to laugh. Like really laugh. She was joined by my mother. I remember (after an initial moment of shock) the incredible sense of hope I had that everything would one day be okay. That memory is precious to me (I like to think my cousin was with us in that moment laughing too) and I have held it dear in hard times as a reminder of the very thing you talk about. We somehow go on. The human spirit, and that thing we call “hope” is truly incredible. I can’t wait to see your film.
I'm in Dublin, Ireland so haven't had the opportunity to see the film yet but am very much looking forward to it. I haven't much to say except Garden State changed my life and put me on a path to being a (aspiring as of now but trying!) screenwriter. I didn't know it at the time but that film rewired my brain, heart and soul in a way I can't explain. I also saw your interview a while back on the Sam Jones Netflix show, and I hoped you would continue to make movies despite the setbacks & arrows sometimes thrown at you. I am so sorry for all your losses & I hope you know how much people admire and respect you, I certainly do and always will.
The film is just beautiful and heartbreaking-- thank you for your brilliant work, always.
Bravo Zach! Life is a series of ups and downs, joy and sorrows...it, very simply, is nothing more, nothing less. Love you Zach. Thank you for this superior film. It took breath away! Aunt Jeri
I heard Rick Rubin say something recently that keeps coming up: “when someone says something surprising, we laugh -- even if it’s not funny.”
these moments of raw humanity -- of humour, pain, grief, confusion, hopelessness. they feel so utterly individual and heartbreakingly personal. and yet when someone shares a moment like this, we can all relate. there’s an irony to this, no? how we all know what it feels like to be alone and in pain? that perhaps it is the least unique experience of all, yet it feels piercingly personal?
your films highlight that we all know what it is like to feel alone. and that being alone together might be the best way for us all to heal. to laugh, cry, and heal together through the stories of others. and that when someone says something unexpected, even if it’s not funny, we laugh.
thank you for writing, zach. you heal people.
Zach, I watched A Good Person alone in the dark sobbing and smiling. Thank you for writing and creating such an inspirational and authentic movie. When it was over I immediately googled who wrote and directed it, thinking "this takes experience" to have written and lead such an authentic tale of loss, learning, and unlearning. The searching and scrolling brought me here, reading of your heartbreak. Thank you for continuing to give as you heal from your tremendous grief. I am so sorry for your loss. Forever grateful for your love...