Movie critic

The Carpenter loves watching movies with me. He really does. You can’t imagine how much.

Saturday nights, we spend about half an hour scrolling through movie titles in a redundant reminder that we don’t like the same movies. We don’t enjoy films with the same enthusiasm either. 

It goes without saying the Carpenter isn’t as much fun as I am (What? He isn’t). He watches movies in silence, following the story with interest but detached from any emotional reaction. He sees it as fictional entertainment, knowing the characters and outcome are fake. He just watches. 

I prefer to actively participate in the movie by way of physical, sometimes vocal reactions. Guffaws. Sighs. Snorts. Cheers. Jeers. Applause. Gasps. Spontaneous jumps. Knee slaps. Hands over my eyes to spare the scare. Asking hypothetical questions aloud. Offering unsolicited commentary. 

Basically, I bring the movie to life right there in our living room. 

The Carpenter loves it. He really does. Who wouldn’t? It’s adorable. He doesn’t even have to tell me how much he loves it. I know.

He enjoys watching suspense movies with me. I’m excellent at solving those. The fictional police appreciate my abilities to assist. Let’s say the perpetrator is fleeing. I believe it’s my civic duty to blow their cover. Hand gestures help. It’s important to point. 

I do not enjoy horror films. When a character is in danger, I feel it best to warn them of their impending doom. Loudly. 

Then I admonish them for their stupidity for going down into the basement just because they heard a noise. At least I warned them. My conscience is clear.

A good comedy will be met with shaking laughter and tears and frequent trips to the washroom. What? Like your bladder is better?

The Carpenter appreciates my commentary on films with spontaneous romantic scenes most of all. I keep it real. 

Who are the directors kidding with these glamourous scenarios and perfect people? Where’s the cellulite? The body rolls? 

Quick fact: if any of my female pals were to have a spontaneous rendezvous in a swanky hotel, they’d be wearing brand-name cotton bottoms, a washed-out bra from a discount store and they’d claim they “forgot” to shave their legs. They didn’t. They just didn’t care. Know why? Because a spontaneous rendezvous requires serious planning. Weeks of planning. 

And if it’s a male lover they’re meeting, he has holes in his underwear and socks and he also doesn’t care. Know why? He didn’t plan the not-so-spontaneous rendezvous. He just showed up with that “here’s hoping” attitude. Truth is stranger than fiction. Am I right?

Cut to the morning after scene. The woman always wakes up with perfect make-up. Right. Sure. No raccoon mascara eyes. Ha. As if.

I will spare you the plethora of emotions that erupt from me during sad movies, but suffice it to say, it’s not attractive at all. The Carpenter makes fun of me, but he loves my sensitive side. So much. 

I should have been a film director. Perhaps an actress. Maybe a screen writer. I missed my calling.

The Carpenter agrees. Totally.

WriteOut of Her Mind