We’ve been moving. I’ve spent the past two weeks slogging boxes and wrapping glasses in newspaper. Much too much time bending in half and lifting things with my back instead of my legs. There are two kids and a dog and a husband to acclimate. There are pictures to be hung and boxes and boxes and boxes of books to unload and place onto shelves in a way that’s appealing to my eye. There are utilities to transfer and money to exchange. It’s a stressful thing, this moving. And I’m uptight to begin with. I’m surprised at this point that my shoulders aren’t affixed to my ears with the glue of anxiety. And to move and continue to work and write and keep other time-consuming commitments, it’s enough to kill a person like me.
So who has time for movies? And who could enjoy a movie even if they had time to sit in a theater for two hours? (Apparently this girl. Thank God I have a job that requires me to take a time out, that insists that I enjoy my life, even when I think it’s all too much for me to handle.)
On Wednesday night, I got to take a break from the unpacking nightmare which had become my existence and go to the movies with my hubby. We decided on The Hundred-Foot Journey, pretty much based on a mutual adoration for Helen Mirran. As soon as we pulled out of the driveway I started worrying I’d made the wrong choice. I was certain I should be home in bed – or unpacking – instead of going to a cold, dark movie theater only to be accosted by the incessant crinkling of cellophane coming from the seat behind me. And then there are the commercials. I’m always mildly irritated that they have commercials at the movies now. It was too late. I was going to have to go to the movies.
All the stuff I was dreading came to fruition. The commercials and the cellophane were out in full force, but then the lights got darker, the curtain opened wider and the previews started. Previews!
Every preview made me cry. Bill Murray, my new true love, made me cry as the curmudgeondy drunk turned caregiver in St. Vincent. *sigh*
And Goddamn that Phillip Seymour Hoffman. Just his glorious presence in the Mockingjay trailer made me cry.
Even Mr. McConaughey, looking a little rough for his new potentially cheesy space flick Interstellar brought tears to my eyes.
“I forgot how happy movies make me until just now,” I said.
“I’ve always wondered about that. What is your deal with the movies?”
I couldn’t really explain it to him just then. I don’t even know exactly what I would have said. Something obvious about escape and inspiration I’m sure. Regardless, it was time for me to get my money’s worth. The Hundred-Foot Journey was about to start.
The Hundred-Foot Journey is a story about an Indian family, the Kadams. After the tragic loss of the matriarch of their family and their restaurant, they are forced leave home. They accidentally end up in a little town in France where they set up shop across the street from a Michelin starred French restaurant. Hussin, the youngest son, is an intuitive, genius-chef-in-the-making. Essentially, the movie focuses on him discovering new levels of love, for his craft and for fellow sous chef Marguerite.
Even if this movie was just a predictable and sweet tale about a genius-chef-in-the-making and his voyage toward love, I would easily pay ten bucks just to see Helen Mirren raise her eyebrow twice. The Hundred-Foot Journey did its job. We left the theater refreshed, albeit with serious cravings for good Indian food.
