I broke ranks with myself tonight.
I just got home about an hour ago. I went to see George Clooney’s new flick, “The Descendants,” earlier. The movie “started” at 7:20 pm. Trailers are an event unto themselves. Trailers are padding for the irresponsible and truant moviegoers. The theater is in a busy pedestrian area and I hate busy pedestrian spots, especially when they are at night. This is an intersection of elements that leaves me most severely out of my element. This is why I like to see all movies early in the morning. The first showing, if possible, because it is the cheapest and the least crowded. I must have had a wild hair up my ass earlier because I told my son we should catch a later showing rather than tomorrow’s early one which would have been more typically my style. He acted nonplussed but I can’t believe he wasn’t struck by my trampling upon personal tradition. Unusual behavior from me.
The theaters is surrounded by restaurants and bars and the area is awash with the repugnant odor of dates galore. Night is when all the plastic people come out. I feel so diminished at night with groups of fashionable and stylish people surrounding. Night is when the good-looking, socially well-adjusted and normal people come out to display their wares. They walk around smugly and self-satisfied. Everyone looks perfectly presented and polished and appear to be on a mission of fulfilling some unspoken (at least to me) bullet list of requirements regarding physical and social attributes that I missed out on.
I feel so undistinguished after the sun has set when the night air is tinged with bright colorful lights and signs. Groups of stellar strangers stroll, smiling, arm in arm, enjoying their nighttime romps, heading to the theater or a restaurant. During the day or in less crowded quarters, I do not feel as alienated, but it seems many of the undesirables don’t mind showing their face during the day so I’m less conspicuous, and thus, not affected.
Nighttime is when the memo goes out that I never receive. Nighttime social life is a pre-filtered grouping that weeds out the undesirables and weirdos. We should just stay home and indulge in whatever esoteric retreats make staying home so enchanting to us. We live under the rock, we must stay there.
At least the movie was excellent.
I’ve come to really like the patented Clooney character, the 45-ish father, husband (or -ex), whose last vestiges of vibrant and buoyant youth are beginning to dry up as he simultaneously contends with the devouring legacy of a life gone south. This movie joins Michael Clayton and O Brother, Where Art Thou? as my favorite Clooney movies.
After the final credits rolled about 9:40, I scurried to my car while trying avoid pedestrians, or at least avoid looking them in the face, and scurried home, back to where I belong after the sun goes down.