Those People and the Missing Irony Gene, part I

On Friday, Kel and I took the kids to see "The Chronicles of Narnia." (Sorry for the quotes, but my browser won't let me italicize.) That's right, I said KIDS plural. We were dangerously close to being those people. You know the people I mean -- the ones who show up to Spiderman 2 with a three-year-old in tow. "Hey, little Johnny! How'd you like it when that mean man's robot arms dragged that screaming lady across the floor, and her fingernails dug grooves in the linoleum? I bet Dora the Explorer can't do that." And in 20 years, little Johnny's parents will wonder why he's sitting on death row for slaughtering nurses across a six-state area.

Then there are the parents who show up to Star Wars Episode I with their newborn. Still wonder exactly who or what the Phantom Menace is? It's that baby! He starts screaming about the time Jake Lloyd first appears on screen. Then Jake Lloyd tries to act. I start screaming. The baby keeps screaming throughout the rest of the film. His parents take turns trying to feed him, rock him -- nothing works.

Then they finally get smart. The dad picks the baby up and heads for the exit. Whew. That only took about an hour for them to figure out. But wait! He's not leaving! He's just walking a path along the landing between the stadium seats and steerage down in front -- just pacing back and forth trying to calm the baby down... In front of everyone! Thanks, buddy. I could almost ignore your scream box when it was confined to one spot in the theater, but now you have successfully pulled me and everyone else here out of the movie. In retrospect, I guess I should have thanked him, but still, it's the principal of the thing.

I remember back in the day there would be a moment in the exhibitor trailer (you know the badly animated preview where the stars in the sky pop like corn and the milky way turns into, well, a Milky Way just before the theatre chain's logo comes surfing in on a bitchin' wave of Coca-Cola products) when we were all reminded that "crying babies should be taken outside." I always thought that was a rather obvious point, and I resented the theatre chain for talking down to me that way. And for making me sit through their inane, four-minute candy and light show. Apparently, that point was not obvious, and no one should ever rely on the common sense of the American public. But I am not like those people. I remember.

So there we were on Friday. Kelli and Savannah to my left and Cooper, with his baby carrier balanced between two armrests, to my right. We were officially white trash. We got there really early so we could settle in ahead of everyone else. It was a midday showing, so we were hoping to avoid a crowd. We fed Cooper and changed his diaper, hoping to provide him with maximum comfort. After all, Cooper is most concerned with his comfort. He was relaxed and quiet. So far, so good. And besides, if he started to cry, I knew exactly what to do -- hand him to Kelli and tell her to take his butt outside.

The crowd started to show. Two by two they came like an all-human Noah's ark. There were two comfortably well-off retirees, two goth nerds, two middle income parents with their two little girls, two uptight fundamentalists, two more uptight fundamentalists, two teenagers -- hey, wait, this is a school day! -- two apparently home-schooled teenagers, then. And each one, to a person, looked at us as if we had killed Jesus, shot Reagan and canceled "Touched by an Angel." (You see, they were mostly Christians. That is if you believe the media hype. I don't, but it is a funny image. Oh come on, do I have to draw you a diagram? Sheesh!)

As the theatre was approaching 75% capacity, a projector bloomed to life and we learned that the cheesy trivia/commercial/billboard still-frame slideshow had been replaced with a full-motion digital trivia/commercial/billboard slideshow -- still cheesy. But now there are goofy cartoons in between the ads. I love goofy cartoons! Cooper was calm. There were goofy cartoons and all the fundies in the theatre were restrained from killing us only because of their behaviorialist hang-ups. All was right with the world.

Then the trailers started. And so did Cooper. Crap! He still doesn't cry very loud, but his impeccable timing means that his whining and grunting our loudest in the quiet spaces of the trailers. Hell! Crap! What am I going to do? I read "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" to Savannah over the summer, and we've been looking forward to this all year. He's getting louder. Crap! Hell! Crap! Maybe he's hungry again. I try to give him the little bit of formula left in his bottle. He rejects it. Hell! Hell! Crappity Crap! I have to send Kelli out to check his diaper. But I can't make Kelli leave. She has all the candy. Crap! Bugger! Double crap!

I pick him up out of his carrier. He's still fussy. I cradle him facing me so I can talk to him. No good. The fundies in the back are scaring him. I think one of them said something about the plagues of Egypt. The joke's on him, though. Cooper's not my firstborn. Ha! Ha! Semi-liberal Presbyterians: 1. Freedom-hating Fundies: 0.

So I turn Coop around, laying him back against my chest. Now he's facing the screen. Quiet. He's not grunting. He's not whining. No crying either. I look at him to make sure he's still breathing. His eyes are glazed over as if in a daze. The screen! He's transfixed by the images on the screen! He wasn't hungry or dirty or wet. He wanted to watch the movie. He's a cineaste! Now I can let the UPS guy out of his holding cell in my basement -- this truly is my child!

This is an opportunity not to missed or taken lightly. My child is a prodigy. At less than seven weeks old, he is showing a deep interest in the cinema. I start to whisper to him the more basic points about the art form. I explain to him the difference in aspect ratios and how widescreen was invented to combat the threat of television in the 50s. I talk to him about persistence of vision, suspension of disbelief, mise-en-scene, editing, sound, the evolution of special effects, the importance of a good cinematographer and the underappreciated role of the screen writer.

He starts grunting again. Oh, no, I've lost him! I pushed too hard! I've turned him against me. Now he'll hate the cinema and everyone involved in it. He'll resent me and my love of the popular arts. He'll embrace radical, outdated means of storytelling like books and painting, opera and theatre. Not theatre! He's become one of those people -- the movie haters! I've ruined my boy!

I lean close to start the damage control. I listen closely. He's not grunting. He's snoring. What a relief! Sure, I'm disappointed that he fell asleep in what was supposed to be a moment of unadulterated joy and excitement, but it's not the first time I've gotten this reaction. And now Kelli can let the babysitter out of her cell -- this truly is her son after all.

Next time, I'll explain the function of the irony gene.

Category:

• Fustian