Bet and Mr M At The Movies

No, Siskel and Ebert (or Ebert and The Other Guy) we're not. But when Mr M and I get together, and he's not torturing me with clarinet practice, our favorite weekend activity is movie-watching.

Watching movies with Mr M is an experience, and, generally, an experience I thoroughly enjoy. Sure, there are the slight bugs, his "ants in pants" affliction which causes him to pop up several times to get up and roam through the house, leaving me to decide whether to hit the "pause" button or just let the movie run (I generally "pause" - I think if I watch every frame, so should he), or his fun habit of yelling at characters on the screen ("All About Eve" was his pinnacle in this regard - before he got up to roam around and never returned), or his other fun habit of comparing every movie we watch to his own personal favorite epic, "Lonesome Dove."

My favorite thing about watching movies at Chez M, or Poderosa East, as it's been known to be called, is the "after movie discussion." I've always wanted the after movie discussion. For years I've wanted to be in a world where I go to the movies with a friend, or friends, and afterwards we go out for coffee and have a long meaningful discussion about what we just saw. And now I get that, well, after a fashion, anyway. Mr M makes us coffee, and we discuss the movie, discussions which can run the gamut from a generalized "It stinks" to an argument of who liked and who hated what for what reasons. (Oh, and by the by, all discussions usually begin with the question posed to me, "Well, how many stars?" by the man who snickered at my keeping a movie list because he said it's just one more way for me to turn something enjoyable into a pressure-filled chore.)

The after movie discussion has taken on something of a new meaning, though, since Mr M has become Student of Psychology M. We tend to try to get inside the minds of the characters as opposed to leaning towards plotline criticism. I like this change, actually. In fact, when we go looking for movies, I kind of keep this criterion in the back of my mind for choosing.

The first movie to get the therapy treatment was that Mike Leigh five-star golden nugget of movies, "All or Nothing." And believe me, there's a lot to analyze in that one. That family was a therapy session waiting to happen. Then it progressed from there just about anytime we've watched movies together, which unfortunately left no in-depth psychological discussion for "Finding Nemo," "For Those Who Think Young," or "Thunderbirds Are Go."

So, anyway. A couple of weeks ago I watched a documentary called "Capturing the Friedmans." It was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Documentary, but lost to "Lord of the Rings." "Capturing the Friedmans" was a fascinating film to watch.

Let's see if I can explain it in a capsule review. Dad Friedman is caught receiving child porn in the mail. The police raid his house and find loads of the stuff. Dad Friedman is also a teacher, and teaches piano and computer classes at the family home. So the police go and get a list of all his students, start seeking them out and questioning them, and voila, over half the kids are now saying they were molested in various ways, not only by Dad but by Younger Son Friedman as well. Soon after their arrests, Older Son Friedman buys a video camera and tapes their lives, or better put, the total disintegration of the family.

I thoroughly enjoyed this movie, which I know sounds sick and twisted, but I enjoyed it because it stretched my mind back and forth and had as many plot twists as a screenplay. And I know that people who deal in child porn need to be cut no slack, but even with all the twists and turns, I can't help but think these molestation charges were totally coerced. The interviews with the alleged victims were just, well, you need to see them. I'll leave it at that.

And speaking of needing to see them, I knew that Mr M and I had to watch this movie together. There was just too much that needed discussing. And so I re-rented the movie and took it to his house that next weekend. And although the discussion was lively, and we were of a lot of the same opinions, I also found some things out about myself. Or Mr M. Or both of us.

I'm well aware that I use the phrase, "well, I'm no prude" quite a bit when maybe in certain ways I am. This kills me. I think of myself as very open minded, liberal, anti-censorship, anti-discrimination, pro-choice, pro-free thinking, pro-separation of church and state, and all the right stuff. And then someone challenges a belief I have and I have to think differently, and realize that maybe I could possibly be a prude, albeit an extremely foul-mouthed one, and, well, frankly, it pisses me off.

There were several things Mr M and I discussed at length where The Friedmans were concerned. But there was one in particular. Dad Friedman, a mild-mannered and good-humored if not creepy little man, wrote to a reporter during the trial and told her "his story." It began when the death of his sister tore his family apart. After his parents divorced, Dad F and his little brother lived with his mother, and, well, they all slept in the same bedroom and wouldn't you just know it, the mother brought home men and had sex with them right there in the bedroom where the Friedman brothers were nestled as well. It had a profound effect on him. To say the least.

As soon as this portion of the story came to light, Mr M started. I wish I could recreate in print the sound he was making. It was kind of a "waah waah waah" whining sound, mocking poor Dad for having to listen to his mother have sex with a succession of strange men. (And let's be honest, if you're having sex in the same room as two young boys, you're probably very strange indeed.)

At this point I spoke up. "Well, I'm sorry, but I think it's beyond poor parenting to have sex with men in a room where your kids are." (I think I refrained from saying, "well, I'm no prude" this time.)

And Mr M started in on one of his Screaming Diatribes (I'll swear, for a man to have such a soft voice, he sure can yell). I can't give you the particulars, only to say that I'm sure "bullshit" was bandied around more than a few times. Mr M's argument to that was, what about the American Indians, what about people in China and many other countries, where everyone lives in one enclosed space and it's perfectly natural for there to be sex going on with the little ones and grandma and grandpa and everybody else in the room. And I said, I didn't care, it was icky, although there was something much smarter than that in my brain trying to run its way out.

My argument was that it didn't matter what the "natural" thing was, in this society it's not done, whether that teaching is right or wrong, it is as it is, and for a kid to be fucked up by that is, in my mind, perfectly natural. My argument didn't win, though.

And that was just the first, the big, argument. Then came the arguments about other things I'm not a prude about but apparently I am. Like what constitutes "sexual contact," and "sexual gratification." I mean, can sexual contact mean touching someone's shoulder if it sexually excites the toucher? And can sexual gratification be sitting beside someone on a bus? And is sexual experimentation between very young kids extremely normal and done by everyone growing up, well, apparently everyone but yours truly, the wild and swinging prude.

And then the movie, and arguments, ended; my ideas had been challenged and I had to rethink all my positions. And some I'm still thinking about. And some, I'm trying not to think about.

But that's the best part of the after movie discussion, when it stays with you for weeks afterwards. Your brain has been well and truly screwed with. I mean, that's a good thing, right?