Wednesday, August 13, 2008
I took my 10-year-old to see “The X-Files 2: I Want to Believe” on Sunday night.
It was not my first choice for movies, in fact it wasn’t even on the list. I’ve been trying to get to Destinta to see “The Dark Knight” ever since I watched “Batman Begins” on DVD. I wanted to do my “homework” first. I am a huge fan of the “Spider-man” trilogy, as embarrassing as that is to admit, so I figured that while waiting for “Spider-Man 4,” I could get hooked on another over-hyped, commercially successful mega-hit.
All the planets had aligned: I had a two-hour period free, without obligation, whereby I could sneak over to the movies with X.
Then he tells me his uncle told him some harrowing scenes from the film and refused to watch it.
Despite my pleading.
So we settled on “X-Files,” which I barely knew anything about, not being a fan of the wildly successful cult hit Fox series many years ago, and its first movie, released a decade ago.
It wasn’t exactly bad — but it wasn’t good, either. And normally squirmish me had to cover my son’s eyes many times throughout and for the last fifth of the movie, because of all the potentially nightmare-inducing medically graphic scenes.
He’s in a stage where he’s nervous about everything — and afraid of everything.
B left the film still munching his overly salty, insanely expensive popcorn; satisfied with the experience — but lacking a huge plot element.
That perhaps more reflects on the film’s overly gratuitous gross-out factor than my son’s understanding of film plot.
Regardless, I left with that creepy “X-Files” trademark score in my head.
The next night I watched “Michael Clayton” at home on DVD. I couldn’t finish it that night because of successive child interruptions, so I played the last couple scenes in the morning before work.
My 5-year-old played on the couch with his cars and motorcycles patiently while I infringed upon his “Bob the Builder” TV time.
“Is that the bad guy?”
“Is that the good guy?” he kept asking, hoping to ascertain the movie plot on his terms.
Wonderfully gripping all the way until the end, the flick’s end credits ran with George Clooney taking an extended New York cab ride as he periodically looked out the window at traffic.
I gathered my knitting, my ice coffee and the DVD in the case, walking to the kitchen, drinking and reading the back of the box.
All of a sudden my glass exploded in hand, projecting ice coffee and cubes all over the floor, the table, my shirt, and most disturbingly, the shawl I’ve labored on since February.
Glass was everywhere.
Y ran into the room.
“What the heck happened, Mom?” he asked.
I couldn’t help my answer.
“I was walking by the window, drinking my coffee and a bad guy across the street but have tried to shoot me because I knew the truth of this movie we just watched!”
“The glass must have saved me!”
Y was agast.
For a second.
Then he continued the fantasy.
“I’m gonna get that bad guy with my cop car and army guy on his motorcycle!” he chirped.
We banted such nonsensical scenes as I gingerly picked up the glass shards.
It was just one more supernatural occurrence in the crazily creative mind of my 5-year-old.
And maybe mine as well.