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Lessons Learned, The Daily Grind

In which I discover that it’s not you, it’s me

velvet rope

I don’t really like movies, I say this a lot but I’ve never really been able to elaborate on that rather pat statement. Also, I haven’t written published a post in a little over a year. These two things are entirely unrelated.

I went to see a screening of Sarah Polley’s Take This Waltz, because Sandra had mentioned it earlier, and I like Sarah Polley, and Michelle Williams — Seth Rogen, not so much, but you can’t win them all.

Due to poor planning on my part, I got there just in the nick of time, but managed to mess up something as simple as using the quick ticketing kiosk by snatching my credit card receipt, but neglecting to pick up the admission ticket that prints up afterwards. A fact that the ticket checker managed to drive home, albeit discreetly.

Can you tell that I don’t get out to the movies much yet?

I wasn’t worried about getting a seat, since I’d had the foresight to ask Nisa to save a seat for my perpetually tardy self. I found Nisa and Sandra, they were exactly where they said they’d be, and dropped off my stuff to make a break for the washrooms, and possibly a pit stop at the snack bar.

That was my first mistake: I went to the smaller snack by right by our theatre, and they didn’t have popcorn, only nachos, pretzels, and cookies(?!). I’m not one to turn up my nose at a soft pretzel, but the guy in front of me got the last premade order of pretzel bites, so I was stuck with an intact pretzel.

I grabbed my pretzel, and silently wondered if she would forget to pass me my drink, as she had for my pretzel-bite having friend, but I got my Mixed Berry Powerade with very little fanfare.

Why Powerade? Much like the odd choice of foodstuffs, the beverage selection at this kiosk was non-traditional. I had seen a girl with VitaminWater cruise by me earlier, and made the decision then and there that I would have one as well, but it wasn’t on the menu at our desolate refueling station.

Since I hate paying for tap water, I shook my head silently at the Dasani, I didn’t think I could make it through an entire movie with a super-sized fountain beverage, so that was out, orange juice seemed like an ill-advised pairing with a salty snack, and an energy drink didn’t exactly seem prudent at 7pm on a Monday night, I was left with but one option.

I hurriedly made my way back into the darkened theatre, whose doors had since closed. My saved seat was in the middle of a back row, but I still had to awkwardly glide by at least six people to seat myself. I had missed the first few moments, but I don’t really think that impacted my overall enjoyment of the film.

It was at the moment that I realised just how loud my preztels parchment diaper truly was, and I was instantly angered by my choice, and contemplated just taking the pretzel out and holding it in my hands to eat it, or repeatedly rusting the paper, which rivaled that compostable Sun Chips bag in the discretion department.

I was afforded my first opportunity to eat when a relatively unfunny moment elicited peals of laughter from the audience. It struck me as I grimaced that I don’t actually hate movies, though I do find most of them to be too trite and too reliant on pandering for laughs for my liking.

Uproarious laughter makes me uncomfortable, especially when it’s directed at a screen. It seems unnecessary, and disruptive, and I find it to be incredibly distracting, and that’s actually what I hate about movies — being exposed to other people having fun. Like, how damaged of an individual does this make me, on a scale of one to ten?

Gritting of teeth aside, I really just couldn’t get into the movie. I don’t find adultery, emotional or otherwise, to be particularly interesting or forgivable. As I’m sure my work performance reviews and my childhood psychologist can attest to, I lack an empathetic bone in my body.

I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat and found myself both hating Michelle Williams’ Margot, and Seth Rogen’s Lou, with alternating intensity. Her, for the infidelity, and he for his proclivity toward short-sleeved button down shirts.

While I enjoyed Sarah Silverman as Lou’s recovering alcoholic sister, Geraldine, most of the relationships seemed a little too twee, and forced. Lou and Margot’s pillow talk especially.

The seemingly obligatory edgy rape joke fell flat, and reeked of desperation.

I’d say that I was bored by the movie (which in retrospect, might have worked better as a play), but it didn’t even feel properly fleshed out enough to register proper disdain.

One sentence review: If I were forced to choose a movie in which Michelle Williams comes to grips with the dysfunctional reality of her relationship, I’d much rather it be Blue Valentine.

photo credit: JeffMaysh


About Nico

I'm not angry all the time, that's just how my face is.


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