Confessions of a Wannabe Movie Critic
July 31, 1999
In
the first of my memories that record contentment, I am on my mother's
lap being rocked as she sings "Little Robin Red Breast"; in my
next one, I am alone in a nearly empty movie theater as my big
brother peers through the dark to see if I am there, and says,
"C'mon, kid, it's 10 o'clock."
How
did I ever survive those years of being too big to sit on Mama's
lap and too small to go to the movies?
"The
Blue Bird," with Shirley Temple, held me enthralled from three
o'clock when, dime in hand, I ran to the Granada and sat through
show after show and then had to be dragged out.
Unfortunately,
I can never be a movie critic like Pauline Kael or the two thumbs-up
guys, Siskel and Ebert. Why? Because I'm selective.
Oh,
of course, not in a snobbish way. Lord, no. It's rather in the
way of refusing to see certain films.
And
it's not because of their violent, or gratuitously sexual passages,
or that they may be wildly profane or blasphemous. (If I were
a movie critic, I would certainly accept all that and review each
film professionally.)
So,
alas, I must be content to be a moviegoer. And, I am. I go to
the movies twice a week. I see just about everything. Unless ...
I hear something.
I
never saw "Jaws." I will never see "Jaws." I won't see it because
friend Joan raved about it and said: "Oh, when the bloody head
is passing the porthole, it looks so real." She feigned a full-body-shiver
cringe.
I
have not seen, and will not see, "Titanic," though my husband
came home raving about it, saying: "Oh, wow, that's an epic. Whew.
It beats 'Gone with the Wind.'"
Our
illustrious editor raved about it and I respect his taste in movies.
The entire world is spellbound and it's breaking all records.
But, I'm not even tempted to go. Why? Because my husband said:
"Oh, it's sad at the end, with the dead people in the water, babies
'n all. They were just alive and they couldn't be saved. Everybody
cried." His eyes welled up and his voice cracked as he spoke.
No,
no. Not for me. I felt betrayed when watching the Academy Awards
included showing how they insert jelly-fish-like contacts into
the eyes of would-be dead bodies. Then, they showed the effectiveness
of the artists' skill floating in the icy Atlantic. Ship's lights
reflected off the morbidly-eerie, wax-like green faces. (Luckily,
I was at home and not bolting from the two-on-the-aisle seats
reserved for reviewers.)
Of
course, dead bodies are not the issue. I grew up on zombies, actors
dressed in shrouds walking around steamy graveyards. No problem.
Ghost stories? I love them. Frankenstein was okay; we all know
people with a few loose screws. And we can relate to Dracula for
the same reason -- bloodthirsty people we know.
However,
I apparently draw the line at real people being made dead with
no chance for a come back -- no, not for me. I will not go to
see "Titanic." I am not boycotting it, I'm glad the story is told
and retold. I feel like running to the theater and plopping down
$8.00 just so Jim Cameron will get one more sale -- but don't
make me see it.
John
Williams' score for "Jaws" is said to add to the mood of impending
horror. The review for "Jaws" said it was a movie of "consummate
suspense, tension and terror." That's usually my state of mind
before I buy a ticket. I'm escaping that and returning to the
well, so to speak, having learned to quench my thirst for contentment
at the movies. I love to sit alone, as close to the screen as
possible, with no one in front or on either side of me. However,
whether alone or crowded in, I abandon myself to the moment and
am figuratively all alone.
In
my memory, more poignant moments from movies stand out than any
in real life; and, if there is something memorable in real life,
I've been heard to say: "It's just like in the movies."
One
such memorable moment came in a "sleeper," featuring Montgomery
Clift, a soldier at war's end in "The Search."
He
helps a little boy find his mother separated from him in the Holocaust
and his buddies say he is a sucker.
"So,
I'm a sucker," he shrugs. My friends and I saw it over and over
and screamed the way Leonardo Di Caprio's fans scream. I haven't
seen it since but I'll never forget the moment.
I
also won't forget Tony Curtis. Today, so debonair, so well-tuxedoed;
then, a blue-eyed, turban-wearing Arab in some Technicolor extravaganza,
pointing beyond the camels in the sand and saying: "Yonduh is
duh kass-ul uv my foddah, duh kay liff."
I
don't rush to see "The English Patient," "Out of Africa," or other
visual spectaculars. I don't refuse, as with my other predilections,
I'm just not interested. I might finally see them and be glad
I did not rush out.
I want the thrill of catching "Frankie and Johnny," and "Love
Field," both with Michelle Pfeiffer. (Never heard of these films
until I saw them.) Or, "Falling in Love," with Merle Streep and
Robert DeNiro.
I
watch "Bronx Tale" over and over again. Chas Palmenteri and DeNiro
brought The Bronx of the '60s to life. You laugh, you cry, you
cheer and you say, "Wow." It is really good, and, equally good
(and as little known) is "Grand Canyon," with Danny Glover and
Kevin Kline, featuring Steve Martin as a real S.O.B.
These
are my kind of movie, as is, of course, "Good Will Hunting."
My
picks have one thing in common: terrible titles. "Grand Canyon"
is not about Grand Canyon. This four-star film was seen by very
few, who might have raced to see it as "Chance Encounter," or
"Carjacked in Hollywood," two legitimate alternative titles. "Love
Field" is the name of the airport where Kennedy landed the morning
he was assassinated. It's not about that!
Surely,
Robin Williams was the draw for "Good Will Hunting," not the title.
Then, through word of mouth, its humanity spread. Or, perhaps,
the critics had something to say.
There you have it. I confess. I am a wannabe movie critic.
I
want to be able to gather around me people of like mind who will
gasp and glow and laugh and cry. I want a following of those who'll
trust my word and go to see a movie "just because she said."
Oh,
the power!
Oh,
the rewards!
By
the way, I should mention I didn't see "Dead Man Walking." I'm
not taking any chances.
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