Friday, January 2, 2009

Why I can't do dog movies

You can head to the movies with your parents to see some film you've been anticipating, that your friends all think is great and you know has something to do with Indian poverty and game shows. The cinema lobby can be crowded with people, all of whom have come to see a certain movie with a dog in it. And after you buy your tickets, you can spend the whole walk to Theater 11 scoffing, "I can't believe so many people are paying to see a dog movie. Of course there are going to be hijinks, and of course the dog is going to die at the end. There's no suspense. The dog always dies." And you know the dog dies, because the chatterbox sitting next to you on a flight home from Lake Winnepasaukee, New Hampshire spoiled it, but also because dogs ALWAYS get hit by cars, or contract rabies, or attack the mayor's daughter and have to be put down, or get eaten by wolves. And you can scoff that so many people will pay $10 a head just to say awww for a couple of hours and eventually cry.

And you can go into Theater 11 and be shocked that the theater is full, and that so many parents brought their children to see a Rated R movie that has something to do with Indian poverty and game shows. You can sit through the credits and wonder why 20th Century Fox thinks that your fellow foreign-films fanatics would ever want to see "He's Just Not That Into You" and "Hotel for Dogs" and "Bridezillas." Or that 20th Century Fox chose to release such an obscure and good film that you are certain this Indian film will be.

And then, after the credits, you can hear the distinctly American voice-over of a familiar broken-nosed actor who became strangely more attractive after his recent suicide attempt. OH GOD. OH GOD. It's that dog movie.

You can turn to your father and whisper, "I really don't want to see this. I can't see this. I really don't want to see this right now, we can still leave and get into the movie that we were supposed to see before this horrible mistake occurred, we probably only missed five minutes, I really don't want to see this, please." But the theater is packed, and to get out you'd have to push past several families and cause a huge stir, so your parents stay put and so do you.

And the film will undoubtedly unreel exactly as you expect. You want to take drink every time your fellow audience members say "Awww" at a wide-eyed puppy face. (You'd be plastered by the end of the first act.) The strangely attractive blond guy and his irritating wife inevitably settle into domestic bliss, conceiving round-faced blond children. They move into dubiously photogenic home after dubiously photogenic home, and along the way, their dog devours their possessions. Every time a new set piece is introduced, you try to guess how the dog will find some way to break, tear apart, or somehow ruin whatever it is. The dog tears across the beach and terrorizes the babysitter. Awwww.

And the whole time, you're thinking, "This dog is going to die. How is this dog going to die. When is this dog going to die. I do not want to be here when this dog dies."

After a suitable number of bland situations and jokes about humping and neutering and familial tribulations that are supposed to be affecting but just aren't--and these things happen without an ounce of style or artistry, naturally--you know it's time for that dog to bite it. The dog is too old to last much longer. And the blond couple finds the dog lying there and take it to the vet and you think, "Those bastards. They didn't have to wait through endless surgeries and radiation sessions. They are getting off so easy."

And then the broken-nosed actor performs his soliloquy about how the dog is a fighter, how he's special. He ate an answering machine. He sat with one of the characters during a moment of sickness.

And all you can think is, "You think that's special! Ha! I've got a fully digested racquetball and a sixteenth of a Nerf football and a three-legged piano that proves that his dog isn't special. His dog never comforted anyone through a four-hour panic attack. That dog isn't special until he stays smiling and well-tempered through months of chemo and pain pills and hurting and STILL lays his head in your lap while you cry over the latest terrible break up. That dog has no personality. It's not afraid of snow and it probably doesn't even have its own neurotic way of navigating under the kitchen table. No one ever walked that dog along the beach at Christmas, experiencing moments of blinding clarity. FUCK that dog."

And they put the dog to sleep, and you still cry like a bitch because even though that dog isn't the best dog that ever lived, he sure looks like him, and that actor got to say everything to his dog that you wanted to say to yours except you couldn't because you were a thousand miles away comparing Kafka's protagonists to archetypes in Freud's "Civilization and its Discontents." And that you hate that beautiful music is swelling because in real life, it doesn't. And you realize that your dad is weeping, which to your knowledge he doesn't do, and your mom is weeping, which to your knowledge she only does sparingly. And the fat lady in front of you sitting so far back in her seat that your knees are squashed is weeping, but she can go to hell because she doesn't understand this like you do.

And finally the credits are rolling and all you can do is turn to your dad and exclaim tearfully, "I told you I didn't want to see that!" Because the movie SUCKED and you still gave the holiday box office the satisfaction of getting emotional over it.

Mountain Goats - Golden Boy (mediafire) (to apply this song to the post above, pretend it is about your beloved dead dog and not delicious snacks)

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