So I’m sitting here, not watching the Superbowl, not doing laundry, just hoping to watch The Simpsons in peace, and at the appropriate time, I switch to Fox, but Fox, as it turns out, is not showing the aforementioned animated series and has instead chosen to broadcast Independence Day for, like, the 30 millionth time. (I can only assume Mr. Murdoch’s minions think that, being a popular Hollywood blockbuster, its potential demographic is entirely different from that of America’s most popular sporting event.) I flip around a little, not really wanting to do anything other than lie on the couch and watch TV and laugh (especially after the spectacular-though-gruelling success that was last night), but nothing else is on, so I go back to the aforementioned sci-fi special-effects showcase.
A few minutes later, I find myself strangely affected by the film. All these shots of fiery destruction, of people dying left and right, separated from their loved ones with no chance to utter a final goodbye–it’s the kind of mass-catastrophe stuff that’s terrified me since childhood. (You-know-what only made it worse.) And I have this moment of morbid lucidity, and I realize that the fact of the matter is, although their deaths may not be as spectacular and cinematic as the ones I’m watching now, everyone I love will eventually pass away: my dogs, my parents, my friends…and I can’t even think about him.
Then Fox cuts to a commercial, and I notice I have a tear in my eye, and that tips me off that something is rotten in Demark, because the only time I cry during movies is (a) when I’m watching Lana Turner vehicles or (b) when I’m exhausted and fragile. Then the commercial’s over, and the movie cuts in with a post-apocalyptic shot of the Statue of Liberty’s head, severed and lying among the smoldering remains of New York City, and the cynical, oh-my-god-couldn’t-they-come-up-with-something-more-original me is back, and I realize that DramaRama just kicked my ass is all, and I need a good night’s sleep. Within seconds, I’m seeing through, jaundiced eyes again–and, oh, the things I see:
- It’s sad to watch people die. Especially pretty people. Especially, especially pretty people who have stirring, swelling, banks of amped-up violin players behind them. (Note for theatre types: you can put Albinoni’s Adagio behind Neil Freaking Simon and have ’em weeping in the aisles.)
- If trapped in the Lincoln Tunnel during a nuclear-type blast, none of my dogs will be intelligent enough to follow me to safety. Hot, hot dogs they will be.
- Nothing is worse than bad child actors, except perhaps Jeff Goldblum. Even on a good day, he’s only fit to do commercial voiceovers and play beleaguered scientists to whom no one will listen until things begin going tragically awry. Off with her head.
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