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 Honey 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 Honey and he shakes his head as if to say: ‘Let it go.’ Meh, anyone who knows me, knows that wouldn’t be happening. 😀 Seeew, here’s the ensuing conversation.
I glare at Honey, “What?”
He shrugs. “Give it a rest. No one thinks like you.”
I’m…well, to say that I was hot under the collar would be an understatement. “I beg your pardon?”
He looks right at me. “You pick everything apart.” Then 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?”
Hm. There’s 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 was so many interesting layers. I bet you could watch that movie ten times and find something new in it every time you did.”
Honey wasn’t impressed. “Can’t you just turn it off once in a while?”
Me: Blink, blink. “Turn what off?”
“Your need to figure everything out before it happens.” He turned backed 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 was 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. AGAIN!
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 deconstructing it to figure out why it was so good, or reconstructing 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. So, yeah, it’s a good thing Honey and I don’t read the same stuff. He’d really be lunch-bag-left-out then. 😉