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Last Updated: Nov 14, 2008 - 12:49:26 PM |
‘Tis the season for blockbuster movies at the cineplex, and – as is my curmudgeonly wont – I’ve thus far avoided seeing any of them. Over the years, I’ve developed a personal rule – rarely broken – to avoid seeing highly publicized movies during their first ten days of release.
Especially in summer, when most movies are really, really stupid.
Cultural conservatives regularly damn Hollywood as raving liberals, but there’s no denying that Tinseltown’s power-brokers are every bit as good capitalists as the suits at Philip Morris.
And Hollywood – like the music, computer-gaming and tobacco industries – aims at the same target audience: roughly, high school sophomores.
After all, in our indulgent society, that’s where the discretionary cash is. As middle-class adults struggle with payments for too much house and too much vehicle – while trying to save up for tuition to some absurdly over-priced college – the real spending money belongs to the kids.
Which explains why, in our times, so few grownups enjoy an evening at the movies.
And why our cultural icons are the sort of immature, modestly-talented “stars” whose lives – on endless display in supermarket checkout lanes and on gossip TV – are more interesting than their acting.
And why no Hollywood producer would ever take a meeting with a new screenwriter older than, say, 30.
Hollywood – especially in the summertime – targets the recently pubescent.
Thus, my ten-day rule. It gives me time to gather, from the word-of-mouth, whether a given movie is worth seeing at the cineplex. Or whether to wait a month and see it for two bucks at the Byrd.
Or whether to pass entirely.
On the whole, this policy has served me well. For example, from what I’m hearing, I’ll postpone seeing the new Indiana Jones flick until it gets to the Byrd.
With all the hype, the movie cleaned up at the box office, assuring George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, etc., a solid profit.
Still, I suspect the main beneficiary might turn out to be John McCain, who can now point out that Harrison Ford – still credible as an action hero – is only six years his junior.
Last week, I was tempted to break my rule to see Sex and the City. I’d enjoyed the HBO series very much – especially the later seasons, when the writers moved beyond titillation and concentrated on developing character and plot.
But there was the wardrobe factor. With SATC fans planning to attend en masse, dressed to kill – and given the thoroughly casual nature of my wardrobe – I decided to wait.
Instead, comfortably attired, I joined about thirty other folks upstairs at the Westhampton Theater for a Friday night screening of Son of Rambow.
That’s Rambow – with a “w.”
Son of Rambow is a delightful, if imperfect, British comedy about two oddly-matched schoolboys who decide to film a sequel to Sylvester Stallone’s First Blood.
It’s a sweet little film, filled with the magic of youthful imagination and creativity. There are scary bits – mainly involving ill-conceived attempts to create special effects at an abandoned factory site – but mainly, it’s just good, quirky fun. And the free poster – featuring a skinny, undersized little kid dressed up as “Rambow” – is worth the price of admission.
I recommend seeing it – and soon. Lacking a blockbuster’s promotional budget, Son of Rambow will fight for its audience while millions crowd the cineplex to waste their money on the latest big thing.
Yet oddly, this lovely little film offers a wonderful commentary on the state of modern cinema. Though its two protagonists attempt to replicate a stereotypical American action film, their efforts are essentially artistic and entrepreneurial. Using a “borrowed” video camera – and improvising costumes and props – the two small film-makers couldn’t be more different from corporate Hollywood.
And, if you think of it, the only Richmond-area cinema offering Son of Rambow likewise points the way toward a possible revival of American film.
If you’ve never visited the Westhampton, I urge you to discover it. Located in a quiet, tony West End shopping area, the Westhampton offers mainly independent and foreign films – the sort of small works that win film festivals and launch the careers of new writers, directors and actors.
It strikes me that, with the greying of America’s population, there’s room for more places like the Westhampton, two-screen movie houses targeting grown-ups – and the occasional young person who prefers Casablanca to the latest two hours of explosions and chase scenes.
After all, older folks – and that includes us Boomers – have discretionary cash, too. And I rather think we’d enjoy having more places to see good films in congenial company.
Just imagine some far-sighted developer – of the sort who creates places like Chester’s Village Green – including a small, walk-up movie house in his next community plan. Would such a theatre find an audience?
And if it did – and the idea caught on – might not the growth of a new, more mature audience stimulate Hollywood to make more films for those of us old enough to vote?
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