"Do the 50 memoirs have to be in chronological order?" Danika asked.
"Well, that's the idea, " I mused and reconsidered.
It's my blog, so I break the rules at will.
I'd read the book, so yeah, I wanted to see the movie.
I'll call it , Woman Splits/Ville.
The book was a real page turner, I'll give it that. I'd read it about a year ago. But sometimes my memory deletes the bad parts, so there were scenes I forgot. After we saw the movie, my sharp Katie commented, "Books are tamer. Black letters typed against white pages aren't as graphic as the theater screen, plus you read a book in segments. You have more time to digest it in parts." Isn't she smart?!
Rated 'R' movies are worse than they used to be. Or maybe I'm just getting old. Either way, the images and slang/jargon/vulgarity steam rolled through my central nervous system like a freight train.
The real embarrassment here is, I brought my daughters and a male friend of theirs.
If I'd gone alone, it wouldn't have been so bad. But I was blindsided by the current chaos of my "What Next Family" and I just needed an entertainment escape. I should have suggested a Disney flick. In addition, my brain was fried from the week at hand, hence the name of the day, "Fry Day." It was past my bed time. I wasn't thinking clearly.
I did remember from the book that the characters lacked nobility. I sort of liked two of them, but they were supporting roles, one a sister, the other a detective. They had a bit of moral fiber, authentic humanity, and a little humor. The protagonist was insipid; had no humor and no moral compass. The villain should have been named, Marvelous Malevolence.
So into the black comfy seats, a bucket of popcorn and soda, at the ends of our elbows, we noshed and watched. And soon, we squirmed. We winced. We covered our eyes. Too late at times we plugged our ears. It got pretty bad, real fast. I kept waiting for it to ease. Not half way through, I leaned over to my daughter and whispered, "I can't watch this."
I walked out. I'd forgot my phone, didn't bring a book. I was hoping the kids would wander out to me and we'd get our money back and leave. It didn't happen. I sat on a bench outside the movie chamber and across the aisle, two other macabre types reeled on. The doors were propped open, so I could picture the chain saw slash and dash of heinous supernatural crime scenes. There I was, sitting in the den of iniquity, Hollywood style. I fingered my Rosary beads and wondered what to do.
I thought of all the research on the effects of violence in television and movies on humans. There are some images, memories, that can't be unseen. Some auditory scabrous slurs, that can't be unheard.
I went back in and asked the girls if they wanted to leave.
"It hasn't been bad since you left."
Reluctantly, I sunk back into my chair.
Quickly, it worsened, with one graphic depravity after another.
The movie should have been rated Rx, because it required a sedative to get through.
With the augment of one of the final grotesque scenes, disgusted, I got up and announced, "Let's go."
Back in the car, reeling, Katie said, "That was disturbing."
We all dished about how bad it was.
"I'm sorry, guys. I should have known better. That was over the top. We should have left sooner."
"It's okay Mom."
I went to Confession before Mass on Sunday. I wanted to be rid of it.
Is it possible to sift through a bad memory and learn from it without being bruised and scarred? The scars remember, I'm afraid.
Rated R means restricted audiences. Those sensitive to speed, spin, and visceral violence.