Brokeass Mountain
Here's the deal: I like movies. Also the deal: I hate going to the movies.
Listening to other people eat popcorn makes me want to commit homicide. But most of my disdain for moviegoing stems from a particular experience in San Francisco. My ex-boyfriend was a film guy, and was friends with other film guys. Said guys took me along to the SF Film Festival, where we crowded into a darkened theater in Japantown to watch an Eastern-European film that featured, from my spotty recollection, drunk people on a houseboat and a large white horse.
All was fine until the movie hit the, oh, I don't know, 2 hour and 45 minute mark, when I started to panic. I needed nicotine and relief from bladder pressure immediately. On either side of me, 25 rapt film devtoees were smugly nestled in their seats, faces upturned and illuminated by the white horse. Not blinking. Not moving. I began to experience the precursors to a panic attack, squirming in my seat, kicking my legs out straight then snapping them back and up into a tucked position, rearranging my coat, making grunty noises, rolling my eyes. (Picture Elaine watching "The English Patient.") I think I finally got up and left, annoying at least 50 people as I made my way out of the aisle. That cigarette tasted like nectar from the gods.
An experience like that is one I want to avoid at all costs. When I tended bar a few years ago, I saw lots of movies. I could go to the Tuesday 1:15 showing of "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon," splay out like a cat in the sunshine, and make it out of there before the high schoolers showed up for "X-Men" at 3:05. Aaaah. But now that I'm a 9-6er, my only opportunity to go to the movies is after work and on weekends. Like the 7 million other 9-6ers in the New York Metro Area. No thanks. Plus, my piddly disposable income goes toward drinks, dinners, travel, gifts. Not $11 movies starring Ryan Reynolds in a fat suit. So, for the most part, movies that I want to see go unseen. (Exception: Harry Potter movies. Leave me alone!)
As you may guess, I haven't seen "Brokeback Mountain," and probably won't, even though, in theory, I'd like to see it. It looks like it would be good. My roommate, the lovely Saint Peg, gave me a copy of the story on which the movie is based and I read it last night before bed. Beautifully, painstakingly written by Annie Proulx, but while reading, I felt personally sad. Not sad for the characters, but sad for myself. Because I had a relationship like that, electric and right but doomed to regret and loneliness and pain in old age. Ah well, we all move on. Someday I'll be able to watch it, I'm sure. On cable.
Listening to other people eat popcorn makes me want to commit homicide. But most of my disdain for moviegoing stems from a particular experience in San Francisco. My ex-boyfriend was a film guy, and was friends with other film guys. Said guys took me along to the SF Film Festival, where we crowded into a darkened theater in Japantown to watch an Eastern-European film that featured, from my spotty recollection, drunk people on a houseboat and a large white horse.
All was fine until the movie hit the, oh, I don't know, 2 hour and 45 minute mark, when I started to panic. I needed nicotine and relief from bladder pressure immediately. On either side of me, 25 rapt film devtoees were smugly nestled in their seats, faces upturned and illuminated by the white horse. Not blinking. Not moving. I began to experience the precursors to a panic attack, squirming in my seat, kicking my legs out straight then snapping them back and up into a tucked position, rearranging my coat, making grunty noises, rolling my eyes. (Picture Elaine watching "The English Patient.") I think I finally got up and left, annoying at least 50 people as I made my way out of the aisle. That cigarette tasted like nectar from the gods.
An experience like that is one I want to avoid at all costs. When I tended bar a few years ago, I saw lots of movies. I could go to the Tuesday 1:15 showing of "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon," splay out like a cat in the sunshine, and make it out of there before the high schoolers showed up for "X-Men" at 3:05. Aaaah. But now that I'm a 9-6er, my only opportunity to go to the movies is after work and on weekends. Like the 7 million other 9-6ers in the New York Metro Area. No thanks. Plus, my piddly disposable income goes toward drinks, dinners, travel, gifts. Not $11 movies starring Ryan Reynolds in a fat suit. So, for the most part, movies that I want to see go unseen. (Exception: Harry Potter movies. Leave me alone!)
As you may guess, I haven't seen "Brokeback Mountain," and probably won't, even though, in theory, I'd like to see it. It looks like it would be good. My roommate, the lovely Saint Peg, gave me a copy of the story on which the movie is based and I read it last night before bed. Beautifully, painstakingly written by Annie Proulx, but while reading, I felt personally sad. Not sad for the characters, but sad for myself. Because I had a relationship like that, electric and right but doomed to regret and loneliness and pain in old age. Ah well, we all move on. Someday I'll be able to watch it, I'm sure. On cable.
posted by mega74 at
11:14 AM
4 Comments:
By the end of reading the story I was weeping, it was ridiculous; twas the postcard that got me. It was the first thing I thought of when I woke up the next day. I can't wait to see the movie and cry some more.
You should have been at the gayboy party I went to last Saturday, where everyone was collectively swooning over "Bareback Mountain" and how it made every single one of them "cry like a bitch."
Why do we do this to ourselves?
By
Anonymous, at 11:39 AM
I've read about corporate holiday parties, seen pictures of fine china on the thanksgiving table, and seen a few too many mentions of conservative hosiery. am i the only one wondering if this is the real meg and we've all been duped?
By
Anonymous, at 11:57 AM
was it underworld? if so, that was a killer. great soundtrack, though.
By
Anonymous, at 7:15 PM
jay nebraska...identify yourself!
By
mega74, at 11:30 PM
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