Monday, February 07, 2005

Paint Me Pink and Call Me EstroGina

As Andrea will soon read about in great detail in a letter I meant to send today, I spent Superbowl Sunday like many of my ovary-sporting species: I saw a romantic comedy.

I can't remember the last time I watched a romantic comedy, even against my will. The last time I actually paid to see one of my own volition had to have been--well, it had to have been "never," is when it had to have been. I can only justify my desire to see The Wedding Date by admitting a shamefully strong attraction to Dermot Mulroney and the need to vacate my house pre-kickoff.

Having paid $9.50 to get in, I assumed that in exchange for my precious dollars I would be provided a certain quantity of cogent cinematic entertainment. Though I realized I was seeing a romantic comedy whose purpose was not high dramatic Art, I will admit that I was anticipating such frills as a "plot" or "character development," or "significant diologue." What I got was a glimpse of half of Dermot's ass.

When I really step back and look at the whole romantic comedy genre (which I can't say I do with great frequency) it makes me kind of sad. I went to see the movie by myself, which is fine, but I noticed I was surrounded by middle-aged women in groups of twos and threes who seemed thrilled to be watching a movie that sacrificed any semblance of a story to allow Dermot more time to spout the most saccharine bile I've ever heard in my life.

Debra Messing: [something along the lines of] I feel terrible, because I've been spilling my guts about myself all weekend, but I don't know anything about you.
Dermot Mulroney, playing a hooker: [something like] Well, I don't like anchovies. I studied comparative literature at Brown. I think I'd miss you even if I'd never met you.

If I knew that bagging me an Ivy League literature buff was as simple as flipping through the tranny escort ads at the back of the Village Voice, I'd've been doing that a long time ago. But no one in the theater seemed to even question the validity of The Wedding Date's 90 minutes of verbal Ipecac.

What makes me sad about the whole thing is that I wanted to watch the movie because, when it comes down to it, I got the chance to be all up on Dermot's stuff vicariously through Debra Messing. I don't feel the need to do this very often; hence the unimaginably long spans between my watching of romantic comedies. But I overheard the women in the theater talking about the other movies they'd recently seen, and they watch this stuff all the time. Since they obviously weren't there to see the movie for any other reason than its love scenes, logic seems to dictate that they need a surrogate love fix so frequently that watching the likes of an infallibly suave Dermot seduce a quirky but loveable Debra every weekend is necessary. Which, like I said, makes me kind of sad.

But then I get stuck imagining the other half of Dermot's ass, so I don't get very much further into my sociological theory of melodrama and its effect on the unhappy suburban houswife than that.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

These sound like the same ladies at the library I worked at during high school. Each week they would come in with two plastic shopping bags filled with paperback romance novels. You could tell by where the binding was broken and the dog-earred pages which sections had the steamier moments.

By the way, what's up with trying to make Debra Messing the new Jennifer Aniston? Every ad I saw for this movie she looked like Jen from when she was moving into the movie world via the romantic comedy route.


11:51 AM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

TOTALLY trying to be the new Jennifer Aniston. Although, personally, I'm rooting for Debra to be the new "neurotic and fast-talking but in the end kind of endearing" romantic heroine.

Even if they made her have straight hair. Curly hair repreSENT, motherfuckers.

11:56 AM  
Blogger ErntsBloggo said...

If they're just wanting love scenes, maybe they should start watching

P - O - R - N .

I'm pretty sure whole butts are shown in those...

2:30 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

Not DERMOT'S, though. Sigh. Not Dermot's.

2:44 PM  

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