“Yes, but he’s not the killer. Just wait for when they finally open the locket and you’ll see that she was the one on the platform all those years ago.” I would always be loath to agree with my father’s predictions. Not because they didn’t make total undeniable sense but because I was so irrevocably lost in the twisting and seemingly “complex” plot of the movie.
“You can’t know that!” I’d shout back. “Only by a huge coincidence and a very lucky guess could you be right.” But judging by the amount of similar exchanges we’d shared over the course of our movie watching life, I knew that coincidence was the last thing for it.
Sure my father boasted an impressive 30 year head start in appreciating cinema but somehow that never factored in to my estimations of his predictions. And those were the movies he’d agree to sit through! Many times he’d just ask about the plot and politely decline to partake. But as anyone with knowledge of either the Russian language or accent will tell you: neither lends itself easily to polite declination. I did try and persuade him at times, knowing full well the futility of my efforts.
“Yes the movie does have Van Damme (any member of The Expendables cast would have equal effect here) in it, but…” that’s usually as far as he’d let me get before cutting me off and leaving me to ponder if I was truly committed to joining the words “Van Damme” and “intelligent plot” in the same sentence. Over time I just came to accept the fact that we had dissimilar tastes which occasionally happened to converge on the odd drama or Jean-Pierre Jeunet piece. Then I began to take notice of some odd things.
Towards the end of a certain foreign film which I won’t name for spoiler’s sake, I hastily proclaimed – for fear of missing the moment – “he’s not dead! He’s been locked up in the basement all these years.” The film was internationally recognized and the plot was by no means simple. This is probably why my girlfriend turned to me and said “you can’t know that.” Yet lo and behold we find out that the poor bastard isn’t dead and has indeed been sequestered for decades. I’m sure pops would have been proud of me there (had he not reached the same conclusion minutes before).
The next time I surprised myself was after having seen Inception (for the second time). After the enchantment of the revolving corridor and recursive dreams had worn off I was left with one startling realization.
I had just been taken for a ride by the best in the business – as they might say in the con game. Inception, you see is not a bad movie; which is not to say that it was good. It represents the best and worst that Hollywood has to offer. The best writers, the best effects, and great actors all acting in concert to bring us: more explosions and intricate action sequences. Dreams are universally seen as boundless landscapes of possibility, yet the cast of Inception finds itself confined to a very terrestrial reality. The truly sad thing is that it was done knowingly. If the masses demand explosions then even the best in the business can, at their best, only give them a compelling reason for more. Like De Niro said in A Bronx Tale: the saddest thing in life is wasted talent. And like my father said to me many times over: If Hollywood made movies for people like me, they’d go broke overnight.
Fast forward a few months to me walking out of the IMAX cinema cursing profusely and trying to shred my Tron Legacy stub into a fine dust. They didn’t even try this time around! I agreed to see the movie thinking “even if the plot stinks, the 3D will be sure to dazzle me”. I kid you not when I say the best 3D scene that night was the dancing popcorn bag and theater logo that preceded the start of the film. This time around they weren’t even trying to fool me. My father, on the other hand, would never have agreed to sit through that rubbish, let alone pay for it. When I finally stopped swearing I understood something. My father and I are more alike than I would have previously liked to admit. Paying full price for Tron, regrettable as it may be, is a small price to pay to understand your father after all these years. More comforting still, is knowing that I’ll be much more likely to decline such hogwash from now on; politely or not.
The shortcomings of my abode don’t stop there. The room is devoid of a television. The computer desk which I inherited from the previous occupants (more likely the occupants before the previous who in turn found it on the side of the road) is wabbly and the faux wooden veneer is fading. What I’d really like, besides a TV and new furniture, is one of those trendy salt lamps to put on the nightstand – you know, a big salt rock with a lightbulb inside that emits a warm amber glow. So why don’t I have these things? Because in many ways I am a visitor here. I never signed a contract when I moved in. I pay my rent in cash every month and I could disappear tomorrow if I chose to. Or my disappearance might be forced upon me by the termination of my employment. Without a visa I’d have little choice but to hike it back to the States. At least the headache of trying to make a British television work with US voltage is not going to be something I deal with. I hope I’m not painting a glum picture with these depictions.

