Maybe you watch movies on airplanes the way I do. I glance periodically at the screen, never bothering to attach the earphones. I’m ready, though, if something interesting happens, to hook up and pay attention. Not once had this occurred — until last week, while I was flying back to Washington, D.C., from Portland, Oregon. I’d read the plot of The Deep End of the Ocean in the airline magazine: A 3-year-old boy is kidnapped, then appears years later, adopted by another family and living down the street. The real mother, Michelle Pfeiffer in the film, sees the boy when he comes by her house offering to mow the lawn. The encounter takes her breath away, and it prompted me to grab the earphones.
This is the only movie I’ve seen this year, and that’s why I mention it. I used to be an avid filmgoer. I’d go two or three times a week, sometimes alone, more often with my wife, Barbara. I’d watch old movies, new movies, and especially Italian movies. I loved going to movies in the afternoon when the theater was nearly empty. Best of all was watching a double feature of subtitled European movies at the Circle Theater on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, a long-gone repertory house. That’s where I saw The 400 Blows and Breathless on the same afternoon.
But no more. Things have changed. I’ve changed, and so has the movie industry. The worst development, to me anyway, was the closing of the movie houses that showed old films. In the ’60s and ’70s, Washington had three of these, plus the American Film Institute, and there was a lot to see. You could get up to speed, in a few years of conscientious moviegoing, on a half-century of Japanese, French, German, Indian, Polish, English, Swedish, American, and of course Italian films. It’s no secret what killed these theaters: the VCR. Now you can watch old movies on video at home, assuming you stumble onto someplace that lends or rents them. Rocco and His Brothers is a bit harder to find than Lethal Weapon 4. But I don’t want to look at a movie at home. Watching I Vitelloni in the living room, pausing when the phone rings, isn’t the same as seeing it at a dingy old theater, uninterrupted. You can’t become totally absorbed in the story at home. At least I can’t.
Foreign movies, new ones, are pretty much a rarity these days, too. Years ago, they were routinely shown in Washington (where I grew up). It took me a while to get used to subtitles, but I managed. If I hadn’t, I would never have seen The Easy Life or Girl with a Suitcase, two great but now forgotten Italian movies of the ’60s. I saw Mondo Cane the night before I went into the Army. One theater specialized in British films. I guess there’s no longer a market for these movies, otherwise somebody would be making money showing them. The last foreign movie I saw was a French documentary on the life of bugs and plants. I read a rave review of it and insisted my wife and kids come with me. The theater, now closed, was up a flight of stairs and very cramped. The movie was monotonous. As I recall, we outnumbered the other folks in the theater. My kids still tease me about it.
I’ve really got nothing against American movies, especially the comedies. My wife and I took our son to see Dumb & Dumber and we laughed more than he did. I also liked Uncle Buck, particularly the scene where John Candy gets the ax out of his trunk and threatens the creep who’s dating his niece. My kids insist Houseguest is hilarious. I haven’t seen it.
My problem with American movies is political. A few years back, I decided I’d boycott leftwing movies, which means I’ve skipped almost all thrillers in the last two decades. How do I know they’re left-wing? I read reviews. In most thrillers it’s some conspiratorial right-wing group or religious sect or business mogul who’s to blame for whatever bad occurs. Who needs that? Aside from an occasional comedy — and most comedies are politically neutral — I try to limit myself to politically correct movies. To be precise, politically correct from a conservative viewpoint. This has really cut down on my trips to the theater. But I’ll go if part four of the Rambo series comes out or Red Dawn 2.
Yes, there’s also an old-guy reason for not going to the movies. It’s not that too many are R-rated or worse. It’s the time the movies start. They begin either at 7:30 P.M. or nearly 10 P.M. The first is too early. I’d have to miss dinner. The later time is just too late. I can’t stay awake. I’d stay up for La Dolce Vita. But for The Matrix, no.
On the airplane from Portland, it was midday and I was a captive audience. And The Deep End of the Ocean turned out to be a genre film, a parents’ movie. Not many movies qualify for this genre: The parents are supposed to be wiser than the kids. Michelle Pfeiffer is, and she gets her boy back.
FRED BARNES
