|
|
Media Whore
Toward a better enjoyment of the cinema with one's parents
Film critics have been taking heat from a vexed public for as long as movie reviews have appeared in print. I regularly read letters to the Los Angeles Times accusing film critic Kenneth Turan of elitism, snobbery, professionaly jealousy and--the unkindest cut of all--having fallen out of the touch with the tastes and desires of the moviegoing public. In general, I laugh at such letters. I expect film critics to employ their rarefied knowledge of film history and theory to enhance our understanding of contemporary cinema. I also trust them to shoo us away from bland or otherwise unsatisfying entertainment decisions.
However, this weekend brought to mind the need for a different kind of critic, the kind who delights in the mundane, a champion of lowest-common-denominator entertainment, who heeds the clarion call of proletarian virtues--a critic, in short, who can recommend suitable movies to enjoy with one's parents.
My father turned 60 on Sunday. He's a spry 60, a fierce gardener and dedicated walker. If you'll be sporting enough to accompany him on a post-supper stroll, he'll canvas the neighborhood with you, pointing out this or that house to update you on its inhabitants latest doings, details he's mapped out courtesy of his police scanner and a little intuitive detective work. We had no inkling of his gossipmonger-elect status when he retired at the relatively young age of 55. At any rate, his post-retirement occupations reveal a man possessed of a rich inner life, a man who finds a world of entertainment in the comfort of his own home.
So how to celebrate his birthday? I'd considered visiting the Counter Spy Shop--a Beverly Hills store that specializes in covert surveillance merchandise--in search of an unusual gift for Pop. But the very idea of a store that hawks nanny cams and sundry paranoid flights of fancy gives me the same creepy feeling I get when I watch animals devour one another on nature programs. And since my father is a man of means entering his seventh decade, I honestly couldn't think of anything to buy him--especially since I don't know of a place where one can still purchase foam-front, mesh-back baseball caps with funny catchphrases.
Lacking gift ideas, I was going to have to take him somewhere, perhaps against his will. I proposed dinner and a movie and, much to my surprise, he accepted with a only a minimum of fuss (consisting largely of securing the name and location of the restaurant I had in mind to rule out the possibility of being taken to some "yahoo joint," the meaning of which is still vague to me). My mother worried aloud that the seafood restaurant I had selected wouldn't have anything she could eat. Foods that are not essentially mammalian in nature don't appear on her menu of possibilities. I assured her that she would be able to order a plain steak "without any weird seasonings." She asked me to call ahead to make sure.
Once the restaurant question was settled, we had only to choose a movie. I haven't attended a film with my parents since the theatrical release of An Officer and a Gentleman. This is where a family film critic would really come in handy. There are critics who specifically address families with young children, but where is that enterprising Arts & Leisure journalist who would dare to help grown children better enjoy their outings with inscrutable parents, unknowable siblings and diaphanous grandmothers? I certainly could have used such a service years ago when my maternal grandmother, in the early throes of what would become severe dementia, only responded well to movies in which there was a steady stream of action--but no loud noises. And I would pay good money for such a service when faced with the daunting task of searching for a suitable film to attend with my mother--who likes love stories but becomes sullen if there's the slightest whiff of nudity--and my father, who lost the ability to suspend disbelief years ago and has been known to exclaim, loudly, "Oh, give me a break!" during such bastions of cinema verité as Die Hard and Field of Dreams.
I thought about chucking my cares and taking them to see Hedwig and the Angry Inch just for the devilish thrill of it, but I demurred. Instead, I opened the Calendar section of their Sunday paper and prayed for something to leap out at them. My parents remained stone-faced as I slowly leafed through the movie ads and show times. When I reached the end, I backtracked to the beginning and started over, trying to guage any shift in expression. I began to feel a bit like I was testing autistic children for stimulus response, and I realized I was going to have to be the fall guy.
"I'm thinking maybe America's Sweethearts or The Score," I offer.
"What are those movies about?" Mother asks gamely.
"America's Sweethearts is the new Julia Roberts movie--"
"Oh, I like her," she enthuses.
"That's that movie with that damn Billy Crystal," Pop says. "I can't stand that Billy Crystal!"
"It's written by the guy who wrote Analyze This. You liked that movie," I suggest.
"What movie was that?" Pop demands.
"Analyze This. It had Robert DeNiro and Billy Crystal in it. DeNiro was a mob boss--"
"Oh, yeah, that was a funny one. That DeNiro was a kick in the ass," Pop says, laughing to himself as he remembers, no doubt, a scene he found particularly funny. "But I can't stand that Billy Crystal--"
"Well, Robert DeNiro is in The Score," I offer.
"Oh, yeah?"
"But he's not funny in it."
"Well, I'll tell you, I never thought of him as a very funny guy, but he was a kick in the ass in that one movie," Pop affirms.
"Yeah, he was. But The Score is a little darker. It's more of a crime caper," I warn.
"Well, would your mother like it?" he asks.
I hurriedly check the capsule review to see if there's any nudity in it, then say, "Yeah, I think so. DeNiro wants to quit the crime racket so he can settle down with Angela Bassett. It's kind of a love story."
"Which one's Angela Bassett yet?" Mom asks.
"Um, she played Tina Turner?" Blank look. "She was in Waiting to Exhale, How Stella Got Her Groove Back..." Mom shakes her head. "She's an African-American actress," I say.
"Oh," my mother says with some gravity. I can see her mentally reconciling DeNiro's whiteness with this new piece of information. Then she apparently decides that an interracial relationship will be fine--after all, her son dates men--and says, "Well, that movie sounds OK."
"Where's it playing?" Pop asks.
"Pretty much anywhere we might want to see it--"
"Is it playing up there by the bowling alley?" he asks. He's speaking of the neighborhood twin cinema, the selfsame theater in which we saw An Officer and a Gentleman 19 years ago.
"Um, why don't we see it at a theater that's closer to the restaurant?" I suggest, desperate to avoid what has become a blighted haven for rowdy teenagers and popcorn-fattened rodents. "It's playing at the new AMC theater down by the baseball stadium. That's only a mile or so from where we're going." We reach an agreement.
We arrive at the AMC 30 and I purchase the tickets while my mother exclaims that she's never seen such a big theater. "How big was that theater we saw Titanic at?" she asks my father.
"Twelve," he says authoritatively.
"And this one has thirty?" she confirms.
"Yep."
"Well, I've never seen such a big theater," she repeats.
We take our seats just as the lights go down and the pre-trailer commercials begin. I see my mother check her watch, apparently to confirm that everything is on schedule. We see a preview of a teen sitcom debuting on FOX this fall. My mother checks her watch. We see a car commercial. My mother checks her watch. We see a Coke commercial. My mother checks her watch.
"Do you have a date after the movie?" I ask jokingly.
"Oh, no," she whispers. But she doesn't explain her obsession with the time just now.
One of the trailers advertises Rat Race. Knowing as I do that my parents think It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World is one of the funniest movies ever, I offer the tidbit that Rat Race is a modern remake of same. "Oh," they say, nodding. Then halfway through the trailer, Pop says, a little self-righteously, "This is a rip-off of It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World."
"It's a remake," I whisper, the implication being that there's a difference between a remake and a rip-off.
"Well, it's the same damn story," he hisses.
"Yes, it is," I concede.
"When do you think they're going to start the movie," my mom whispers, looking at her watch.
"It probably won't be long now," I answer. "Why?"
"Well, if it's going to be long, maybe we should have a snack," she whispers. "We usually have our dinner pretty soon."
It's 3:45.
"Do you want some popcorn?" I ask. "Let me get you some popcorn."
"No-o-o," she says, elongating the vowel for emphasis. "We'll be fine."
Another trailer starts and I see her check her watch out of the corner of my eye.
The film finally begins and we settle into it. It's a good film with a couple of twists, only one of which is expected.
Mother leans toward me on two separate occasions to ask why so-and-so did this or that. She lacks confidence in her ability to follow narratives and isn't at all sure whether certain plot developments are purposefully mysterious or unknown only to her. She attributes omniscience to everyone but herself.
Pop leans over in the second half of the film to tell my mother that he finally figured out where they had seen Ed Norton before: "He was in that movie where he killed that priest. What the hell was the name of that movie?"
"Primal Fear," I whispered.
"No. It was that movie with Richard Gere. The kid killed a priest..."
I consider repeating that the movie was, in fact, Primal Fear, but I let it go.
My parents spring out of their seats as the credits begin to roll. I dutifully follow them out of the theater. Mother seems happy because Angela Bassett didn't show any tit and still managed to get her man. Pop says it was OK, but a little confusing. In short, The Score is a success for my family because it didn't offend anyone.
"That Marlon Brando's getting old," Pop observes.
"Oh, yeah," Mom concurs. "And that Ed Norton, too. He must be getting up there."
"Ed Norton was the young one," I say, confused.
"How's that now?" Mom asks, wrinkling her forehead.
"Ed Norton. He was the guy who was on the inside, the janitor at the customs compound," I explain.
"Well, how can that be? Isn't Ed Norton that old timer from The Honeymooners?"
I laugh. I can't help myself.
"No, you're talking about Art Carney," Pop explains. "I'm not even sure he's still alive. But this Ed Norton from the movie, he was the one I was telling you about. He was in that movie we saw where he killed a priest and Richard Gere was his lawyer. It's gonna drive me crazy trying to remember the name of that movie..."
"You guys ready to eat?" I ask.
"Yeah," Mom says. "We're starved. We usually eat a lot earlier..."
Come back for more exclusively.net features at Unzipped.net.
|
![[2] - Hot Male Couples!](http://www.unzipped.net/images/logos/2mag.gif)
