A few weeks ago I went to see the highly praised French film The Father of My Children. At least I tried to. The ticket taker told me that screen four was to the right, so I walked straight in. Annette Bening soon appeared on the screen, followed almost immediately by Naomi Watts and Samuel L Jackson. Clearly, I was in the wrong room. It turned out it was called Mother and Child — and it was sufficiently engrossing that I stayed.
Bening played a woman who had given up her daughter for adoption at age 14 and was now a total mess. New husband Jimmy Smits encourages her to track down her daughter (Watts), who is already pregnant with a child who may be Jackson’s, but could also be her neighbour’s. Meanwhile a neurotic African-American woman is trying to find a child to adopt. The plot was convoluted, but I had to admit that I enjoyed the movie, even though I saw it only because the cashier had sold me a ticket to the wrong film.
Because things had worked out so well with Mother and Child, the next three times I went to the movies, I told the cashiers to pick out a film they thought I would enjoy. Any film; didn’t matter. They seemed happy to go along with the gag. Or indifferent. Frankly, I thought they would instantaneously size me up as an A-Team kind of guy, but to my great surprise — and embarrassment — they didn’t.
The first cashier sold me a ticket to Get Him to the Greek. I don’t care for Jonah Hill and didn’t even know what the film was about, but I have to admit that it was pretty funny, if not an outright hootfest. Once again I had been directed to a movie I would not have chosen to see myself, yet came out of the theatre thoroughly entertained. Something strange was going on here.
The next time I went to the movies, I was absolutely sure the youthful cashier would sell me a ticket to The A-Team or Iron Man II, but she didn’t. Instead, she punched up a ticket for a Michael Douglas film called Solitary Man. This was yet another film that was not at the top of my must-see list, but perhaps because I was alone that day, the cashier must have figured it was right up my solitary, manly alley.
As luck would have it, the film was quite good, featuring a stellar performance by Douglas. In it, Douglas plays a sleazy car dealer whose best years are behind him. It was a fine turn in a good if not great film. So once again serendipity had worked in my favour.
The third and last time I tried out my new movie-going policy, I was sure that this time, finally, the middle-aged cashier would send me straight to The A-Team. But no, after thinking about it a minute, he punched up a ticket for a horror film called Splice. The film had abysmal reviews and starred Adrien Brody and Sarah Polley, neither of them my favourites — but wouldn’t you know it, the film was really, really scary.
Determined to get to the bottom of this thing, I finally went and saw a movie I actually wanted to see, a bit of lighthearted fluff that was sure to raise my spirits. Yes, I finally shelled out my $10.25 and demanded a ticket to see The A-Team. It was noisy, confusing and awful. So now I’ve learned my lesson. The only thing that can possibly get me to deviate from my newfound movie selection strategy is if the cashier hands me a ticket to see Sex and the City II. If Sex and the City II turned out to be a movie I actually enjoyed, it would be time for me to hang up my spurs as a critic. I’m not ready for that yet. But it looks like I’m getting close. — Guardian News & Media 2010