GEORGE ROBERT MURPHY
I MISS YOU DADDY
Could I be the kind of person that ruins fun? A woman who saps the life out of an entertaining experience? Someone who can’t let the sleeping dog lie? Egad! I do believe I am.
Here’s the deal. Over the weekend The Boy and I had some friends over for dinner and movie. The dinner was perfect because, well, I cooked it. The movie was a different matter altogether. I sat through the whole thing making my mental notes, but when it was over I launched what I thought was going to be a great discussion about certain aspects of the story. Imagine my surprise when I’m greeted with blank and vacant stares. I look at The Boy and he shakes his head as of to say: ‘Let it go.’ Meh, anyone who knows me, knows that wouldn’t be happening. Seeew, here’s the ensuing conversation.
Me glaring at The Boy: “What?”
The Boy shrugs: “Give it a rest. No one thinks like you.”
Me: (to say that I was hot under the collar would be an understatement) “I beg your pardon?”
Him: “You pick everything apart.” He turns to our owl-eyed guests and asks. “Did anyone else see that well-placed symbolism? How about the clever mirror? What about the theme. No? I bet you guys were too busy just enjoying the flick to take much notice of that shit, right?”
Me: pulling my chin off my chest. Shit? That stuff wasn’t shit. Why, that was the stuff that separated a good writer from a hack. “But there were so many interesting layers. I bet you could watch that movie ten times and find something new in it every time you did.”
Him: “Can’t you just turn it off once in a while?”
Me: Blink, blink. “Turn what off?”
Him: “Your need to figure everything out before it happens.” He turned to our guests and nodded. “She wrecks every movie we watch together. We’ll be sitting quietly watching the show and she’ll say something like: Gee, if I were the writer I’d do this, or the writer missed an opportunity here. If he’d written it so that the shoemaker discovered the body instead of his wife he’d have X to play with instead of Y.”
Me: Blink, blink.
It was at this point I realized I was the wet blanket. The dud in the package of firecrackers. How could he hope to enjoy a movie with me if I was either de-constructing it to figure out why it was so good – or re-constructing it to point out how it could have been better. The scary part to all this? In my mind, a movie compares to a book like a soda pop is to a dirty martini. Good thing The Boy and I don’t read the same stuff – he’d really be lunch-bag-left-out then.