In general, my house operates like a democracy. An idea is proposed, everyone starts shouting, filibusters are threatened, lobbying is involved, someone suggests this signals the end of life as we know it, backroom deals are made, and then, finally, we can go get ice cream.
When it comes to movies, we still operate pretty much like a democracy. In China.
My wife proposes an idea.
We vote to do it.
And that’s fine, up to a point. If we’re talking where to eat, the fastest way to get somewhere or whether that tie goes with anything I have on, things would turn out just peachy and we’ll all be much happier for following her “advice.” When it comes to running our house, I’ve seen the job, and I don’t want it.
But much to our consternation, the lovely Mrs. Smith does have a teensy little, two-hour-anda-box-of-popcorn blind spot.
When it comes to selecting movies, she is, dare I say it ... somewhat … fallible.
Some of that, I can certainly understand. She has a pretty stressful job. Inviting more explosions and train wrecks, even of the celluloid variety, into her life is probably not something she’s interested in. She’s fi ne with the fact Private Ryan got saved, the asteroid got blownup in the nick of time and it was Norman pretending to be his mother. So fine, in fact, she’s willing to take your word for it. She doesn’t need to see it.
When it comes to movies, she can watch any genre, as long as it’s a romantic comedy. Preferably starring Matthew McConaughey. And Kate Hudson, if available.
But certainly Matthew McConaughey. I’m trying not to be off ended.
The problem with that, beyond the fact Matthew McConaughey movies generally stink on toast, is that he doesn’t make one every year (although it certainly seems like it).
So when it comes time for a twice-yearly, post-Thanksgiving/Christmas Day Movie Extravaganza, my wife gets to pick. And without the goofy but steady North Star of a RomCom (I have no idea what that means, but I read it in “Parade” magazine while waiting for my turkey bacon to finish microwaving and it seems appropriate), she’ssomewhat flying blind. And no good can come of that.
Which brings us, literally, to “The Life of Pi.”
“The Life of Pi” is a movie about a teenage boy whose ship sinks, which results in him being trapped with a Bengal Tiger on a lifeboat.
And hilarity ensues. Ok, not really. It’s beautiful. It’s thought-provoking. It has a run time of about 10 days.
Without an intermission. It is tediously, paint-drying-ly, grass-growingly slow. And it requires a 52-year-old to consume an entire, bucketsized soft drink and then stare at the ocean for two hours, afraid to leave his seat in case something might actually happen in the fi lm.
And it’s not even the worst movie she’s made me go to.
Exhibit A on that one would be “Divine Secrets Of The Ya-Ya Sisterhood.” At the time, I thought we were going to see “Enemy At The Gates,” a movie about marksmen during World War II. Instead, she used trickery to get me to see what she wanted to see. I believe the trickery consisted of her saying “I don’t want to see a movie where they shoot people. Let’s go see ‘Divine Secrets Of The Ya-Ya Sisterhood.’” To which I said “OK, can we get M&M’s?” Yep, she’s a sneaky one.
From that particular episode, I learned a valuable lesson. If you are in a packedtheater and you’re one of only three men there, and many of the women are wearing funny hats and appear to have come in groups, excuse yourself to go to the restroom and don’t return. Tell her you got lost. Or that the line was really long. She probably won’t miss you, anyway. And you certainly won’t miss two hours of bad Southern accents and man-bashing.
Just show up at the exit with a $12 movie bag of Goobers.
That will fi x anything.
To be truthful, I’ve had my share of miscues when it comes to holiday fi lm selections. I still contend “True Grit” was a good movie, but perhaps not the best post-Thanksgiving choice. Particularly when one of the characters gets his fingernails trimmed in a most unpleasant way.
And at the end of the day, whether its holiday movies or bad caroling or backyard football, the point of all of this is that you’re doing it together. What you saw doesn’t matter. Who you saw it with does. The memories are woven into the tapestry that becomes your family story. It’s not the destination; it’s the journey that matters.
As long as it doesn’t involve a tiger and a rowboat.
GARY SMITH IS A RECOVERING JOURNALIST LIVING IN ROGERS.
Opinion, Pages 7 on 11/29/2012