Yesterday, seeking asylum from deep thought, children, and all things Christmas, we went to the latest Meryl Streep movie, It's Complicated. We, meaning me and two girlfriends, whose combined weight equals mine, but nevertheless tucked into their individual, large bags of buttered popcorn like starving, premenstrual wolverines. One even poured a large bag of peanut M&M's onto her popcorn, which is why they are my true friends.
Forever leery of people who enter a movie theatre and don't make a beeline for the concession stand, I ask, "what do you do with your hands in the dark, whilst staring at Alec Baldwin, a pre-Letterman Joachim Phoenix, Colin Firth – or if you are so inclined, Angelina Jolie – if you aren't busy eating popcorn?" I would be afraid to find out.
Once nestled all snug in our seats, the trailers may as well have been ads for hormone replacement therapy, because except for maybe the woman with the moustache two rows back, there wasn't whole lot of testosterone happening in Theatre #7. Pity the poor, whipped bastard who would succumb to such a blatant chick flick, with Invictus and Sherlock Holmes rolling just a few doors down.
As usual, the grand dame of all things wonderful, Meryl Streep did not disappoint. And of course, I LOVED Alec Baldwin, who played the charming, successful cad of an ex-hubby in a well-tailored suit – once again proving I am, if nothing else, predictable as hell.
I won't spoil the movie, but go for the popcorn, the set design, Alec Baldwin's wonderfully middle-aged cheatin' hairy chest, and the scene stealer, John Krasinkski from The Office.
More important, go for the hormone replacement therapy one gains from spending a few hours laughing with girlfriends without hearing, "Mom, that's lame" or "ASAP" or "What the fuck have you been eating?" or "Did you ..." followed by a "because" and a request. We stopped at the Lord Nelson Hotel for a glass/bottle of wine on the way home. Neither of the stick chicks had ever been in the gloriously dark and welcoming Victory Arms Pub, despite having grown up in Havenot. My popcorn-laced gut says they'll be back.
My arrival home at 8pm from a 4 o'clock showtime didn't even phase the little bastard. He had been sitting in the next theatre over, watching Invictus, happily farting and scratching his balls, eating a $9 dollar chocolate bar and a large, buttered popcorn. Or as we call it: dinner and a movie.
Why complicate it.
halifaxbroad@gmail.com
For showtimes: www.empiretheatres.com
For drinks: www.lordnelsonhotel.com
