Bafana Khumalo
I GIVE up on old movies. I am one of those people who condescendingly complain that “they don’t make them like they used to”. I have always believed that anything made after I was 10 years old is just plain old garbage. And on Saturday night, I had the opportunity to see something that would take me back to the old days.
Dearly Beloved said we should go out on the town, paint it bloody red and regret it for the rest of the week. I said: “No! There is a great movie somewhere on television, we have to watch it. I have been trying to get hold of it for the greater part of the past 10 years, and there is no way I am going to miss it.”
Usually she would have reduced me to a blabbering fool with a one-word retort, but she was in one of her kinder moods. She rolled her eyes. We stayed at home and waited for the movie. A great time I had as she sighed and said something about nerds and being at home on a Saturday night. I smiled sheepishly and thought of promising to make it up to her, but I knew I could never fulfil such a promise. So, in silent pain, I suffered her cruel barbs.
This pain was not made any better by my wobbling picture on the telly. You see, since the Great Relaunch, my picture has not been the same. Not only do I not know where to find what, but I also have to take my little indoor aerial and do the tango with it in my lounge.
Dearly Beloved looked at me and said: “Don’t you think going out is more fun? You could be dancing with me instead of that aerial.” I froze momentarily and smiled a silent prayer to myself.
I finally discovered that sitting on the floor and not moving about too much did not disturb the picture. I waited with anticipation as the movie came on and the opening credits said: “Play Misty for Me.”
Now, I had heard so much about this movie, that it was the first interesting thing good ol’ squint-eyed Clint Eastwood had done after a series of spaghetti westerns.
I wonder why, in the entire world of people of all colours, religions, cultures and sexual orientations, I am the only one to be constantly disappointed. I have never gone to a play expecting to find garbage, and found garbage. I have never walked up to a person to strike up what I expect to be a scintillating conversation, and found myself spending the night in fascinating conversation. Instead, I find myself listening to people complain about how they haven’t been headhunted lately (blacks) or how they are about to lose their jobs because of affirmative action (I don’t need to tell you what race says the latter).
That is how I felt about this particular movie. It was disappointing watching my squint-eyed buddy trying to play someone who actually has to talk — a radio announcer — and is terrified by an obsessed fan. A female one, nogal. Our Clint, our butt- kicking, husky-voiced Dirty Harry? The first 30 minutes were enough for me. Never have I regretted watching a movie so much in my long life. I had to go sheepishly to Dearly Beloved — who was by now well on her way to a peaceful Satuurday night sleep — and ask her whether she was still up to going out. “What about your great classic of a movie?” she asked.
I had to be honest. They sure don’t make ’em like they used to — some were just downright boring.