goddess of clarity: a blog about politics, culture, and serenity

Archive: April 1 - April 15, 2005

April 12, 2005 — 16:20 EST

I love going to the movies. Always have. I think it stems from the fact that going to the movies was such a rare treat when I was a kid. My siblings and I would go nuts with excitement whenever we heard the happy question, "Do you want to go to the movies tomorrow night?" Yes! Yes! Yes! The first movie I ever saw was at the drive-in: a triple bill of The Last Days of Noah's Ark, Buck Rogers, and The Sting. I think us kids were all asleep in the back of the Volaré station wagon by the time The Sting came on, but that's probably how my parents planned it. The first movie I saw in a standard movie theatre was E.T.

Eventually, I became old enough to be dropped off at the movie theatre with my friends, and then to drive to the movies myself. And since then, going to the movies has been a regular weekly occurrence for me. There is just something about sitting in the dark, when the opening titles start to roll. It still fills me with a feeling of excitement—almost fear—every time, even if the movie in question is a light-hearted comedy. It's the anticipation of the unknown, I think, that gets me. No matter how many reviews you may have read or trailers you may have seen, you still don't *really* know what is about to unfold before your eyes. It could be fantastic; it could be crap.

In Rochester we are blessed—and I do mean BLESSED—with three wonderful, independent movie theatres. The Dryden is the theatre attached to the George Eastman House, a photography museum and former home of the Kodak founder. The Dryden shows Rochester premieres of films that would otherwise never get a Rochester premiere (recent and upcoming premieres include Werner Herzog's Incident at Loch Ness and Catherine Breillat's Anatomy of Hell), restored classics (My Man Godfrey, Little Ceasar), silent films, and other interesting fare (a David Lynch retrospective played out on Wednesdays in February and March, and on Superbowl Sunday they offered a Three Stooges marathon dubbed the “Stoogerbowl”). The Little is a not-for-profit arthouse that shows standard arthouse fare and foreign flicks plus the occasional oddity (people drove down from Toronto to see Bubba Ho-Tep). It's also the only movie theatre I've been to where you can buy a beer ("And I’m not talking no paper cup, I mean a glass of beer."). The Cinema is a second-run theatre that offers an impressive variety of films on its single screen, from Hollywood blockbusters to arthouse films. It's also the best deal in town: $3 double features every night. And if you spend $8.50 at the Highland Diner across the street, admission is free! Two people can grab a burger and a malted, and then see TWO movies for $20. Not each. Total. You can't beat that.

It has become so unusual for Mr. Goddess and I to step out of the rarified air of these three cinema gems, that I think we may be taking them for granted. So perhaps it was a good thing that a recent visit to one of our suburban mall multiplexes shocked us both back to our senses.

We went to see In Good Company at the Culver Ridge Mall. It was a quiet night; as the trailers started I counted three other couples in the theatre. Then, about a minute into the opening titles, a large group of sixteen- to eighteen-year-olds stumbles in. They're already giggling and pushing each other, and spilling their Cokes, and I think, "Oh, fuck."

They flop down in the back right corner of the theatre and proceed to talk, laugh, and generally goof around. For. The. Entire. Film. Now, I no longer have any qualms about telling a noisy patron sitting next to me or in front or behind me to please keep it down. I used to be too embarrassed to do this, but fuck that. Not anymore. The problem is what to do when the jackass in question is sitting many rows away from you. First, we "sssshhhhh"-ed them. Then the couple in front of us "sssshhhhh"-ed them. Then the couple behind us "sssshhhhh"-ed them. They'd quiet down for about 45 seconds and start right up again.

Mr. Goddess—who is not as sensitive to the mumblings, coughs, and candy-wrapper-rattlings of our fellow movie-goers as I am—is slowly clenching up with rage, his fingers digging in to the arm rests as if it's taking all his strength not to rip them off with his bare hands and beat these kids about the head with them.

I don't get it. I really don't. What is so hard about keeping your mouth shut for two hours? I think every movie theatre in America should run a simple announcement before every film—somewhere between the obnoxiously loud Fanta commercials and the incredibly stupid Coca-Cola movie trivia quizzes—that goes something like this:

"Ahem. Good evening, movie lovers. Welcome to OmniCineMegaPlex. The movie you are about to watch will last approximately two hours (or more like 90 minutes if its stars include David Spade or any of the Wayans brothers). If you feel you are unable to refrain from speaking during this period of time, please exit the theater now, and return to your homes. Wait there for about two or three months, by which time this film will be available on DVD for rent or purchase.

"Once the film has started, please feel free to laugh, cry, gasp in surprise or alarm, even cheer. Speaking, however, is out. Seriously. We mean it. If you do not understand something that is happening during the film, do not lean over to your friend and ask, "What did he say?" If you think you recognize one of the actors but can't remember from where, do not lean over to your friend and say, “Oh look! It's that guy who was in that other movie with the thing!" If you think you've figured out what's going to happen next, do not lean over to your friend and say, "Oh my god, he's going to kill her!" If you have any comments to make about the film at all, please note that there are many fine bars, restaurants, coffee shops, and ice cream parlors within an easy drive of this cinema. There you can discuss the finer points of auteur theory as it relates to the films of Michael Bay for as long as you like—after the movie.

"Anyone found in violation of this incredibly simple policy will receive an initial "ssshhhh"-ing from the audience. Upon any subsequent violation, the offending patron will be removed to the lobby by our helpful OmniCineMegaPlex ushers and pelted with wet Gummi Bears and stale Swedish Fish until they are reduced to tears. Other patrons are encouraged to point and laugh during this process.

"Thank you for your attention, and enjoy the show."

—lori.

April 8, 2005 — 08:20 EST

Millions waited in line for hours over the last couple days to file past the body of Pope John Paul II, and his funeral was streamed live from the Vatican across the Internet this morning. I’m too much of a lapsed Catholic to have any articulate feelings on the death of the pope. He seemed like a nice person. He certainly led a fascinating life – founding an underground acting troupe in his youth, studying for the priesthood in hiding during the Nazi occupation of Poland, standing up for the Solidarity movement and against Poland’s communist government, surviving an assassination attempt.

What really fascinates me, however, are the ways *other* people are choosing to remember the Pope, particularly in America where there is no grief without commerce (I believe these $43 Terry Shiavo cufflinks prove that point.).

EBay currently lists close to 10,000 items of pope memorabilia on its site. One of the pricier ones is this lovely Royal Doulton figurine of the pope, of which there are over a dozen currently on offer, with bids in the $300-$400 dollar range.

Nevermind that it looks almost but not entirely unlike the pope. In fact, I think it looks more like some minor mafia don. But I suppose it must resemble *one* of the popes; there have been a lot of them after all.

Further down the price scale, there is this lovely pope bottle opener, or “Popener” as some clever Vatican City souvenir hawkster dubbed it. Yours for fifty bucks.

“Never before used .. still wrapped in its sturdy pink covering .. Serious bids only,” its seller advises.

There are pope T-shirts, autographs, commemorative plates, commemorative coins, posters, postcards, rosaries. Even a pope Beanie Baby. And of course, what car bumper would be complete without this pope magnet ribbon, which you could probably squeeze in next to your yellow “Support the Troops” ribbon and your red-white-and-blue “God Bless America” ribbon.

In related cheesy souvenir news, it seems Britons have been snapping up mis-dated Charles and Camilla wedding memorabilia. Since the elderly couple's nuptials were pushed back a day so as not to conflict with the pope’s funeral (the Prince and his mistress will now wed on Saturday, April 9), the public are clamoring for tea towels, mugs, and placemats bearing the original wedding date of April 8. This is good news, since sales of tchotchkes for this second royal wedding had been sluggish. Thanks, Your Holiness!

—lori.

April 4, 2005 — 16:07 EST

Baseball season starts today for that part of the league that isn't the Yankees or Red Sox, and I'm listening to the Internet broadcast of the Phillies opener with the newly minted Washington Nationals. I have been a huge baseball fan ever since the fourth grade, when the Phillies beat the Kansas City Royals in the World Series, and my teacher—Miss Becthel—let us watch the team's homecoming parade on a little black and white TV she brought in from home.

I love baseball because it's a simple game ("You throw the ball, you hit the ball, you catch the ball."), and yet during each game of a 162-game season, you are likely to see something you've never seen before. It's the ultimate team sport, where every player (at least in the National League) must perform on both offense and defense, and yet each play begins with a confrontation between two individuals. It's a slow-paced game, and yet the action can turn on a dime. A team's fortunes can be reversed, for good or ill, on any given pitch; there is no "running out the clock." And the excitement this tension can generate is greater than anything else in sports, in my humble opinion.

So the recent steroid scandal hasn't really diminished my love for the game; it's just made me a bit angry and, most of all, disappointed. Because you don't *need* steroids to achieve those things that make baseball great! Baseball is not designed as a game of brute force. It's a game of contact, strategy, speed. The object of the game for the batter is to hit a round ball with a round bat. For the pitcher the object is to stop the batter from doing just that. Neither of these tasks requires 22-inch biceps. Besides, a game-tying hit-and-run play or a game-saving diving catch are more exciting than a solo home run any day of the week.

The owners and the players' union need to wake up to that very simple fact, scrap their wimpy new "policy" and get serious about protecting the clean players and the fans who truly love the game.

—lori.