Gone to the movies

This used to be so easy.

I'd sit down in the theater, recline into the back of my seat with a snarky smile on my face, and watch the movie. I'd think of a few witty things to say, the kind of things I'd say out loud if I was at home and had an audience (or even if I didn't), then save them for the end of the movie, when we'd pass through the glass doors leading to the outside world and I wanted people to know just how clever I was.

My ultimate expression of cleverness came once a year with the "Rob Movie Awards," my annual attempt to pick on those people who actually accomplished something creative this year. I was almost halfway finished with writing up this year's awards, when it occurred to me I really ought to go see the movie that was on almost every critic's "must-see" list, Mullholland Drive.

So I went to see it, last Saturday night. I knew it was going to be weird. Really, really weird. I'd prepared myself -- I thought -- by watching "Open Your Eyes" the night before, a film made, by the way, when the director and I were both 23, and I had just begun teaching high school. I try not to think about that.

The movie was strange, but not in a "Memento"-strange way, where there are a lot of odd things going on that are somehow all tied together by the movie's end. It's just plain strange. And I didn't like it. No, that's not true. I *said* I didn't like it. In fact, I told everyone I know how much I didn't like it. I added it to my awards list as the "most overrated movie of 2001," even though I knew I wasn't telling the truth.

I knew that because every chance I had, every moment I could steal away from classes or grading papers or all of the other things I do to distract myself, I was looking up reviews, talking to people about the movie, trying to come to grips with it. Because I didn't get it. And that made me furious. I can accept -- I think I'm the first person to admit -- when I don't know something. Well, maybe the second. But I can't come to terms with the idea that there might be something I am incapable of understanding.

I've run across these things, as one might expect, quite a few times in my life, though I can't remember admitting it before now. I hate it. I tend to deny it, to say things like "that film is pointless and stupid," and "everyone else has no idea what they're talking about; I'm the only one who can see that the emperor isn't wearing any clothes." But the truth is, sometimes, there is something out there that seems -- not better than me, maybe, but beyond me. And that scares me to my core.

I'm not going to review the movie. I'm not going to include it in my list. I'm going to see it again, and keep seeing it, and keep wrestling with it, until I either begin to understand it, or convince myself that an imponderable mystery can be a beautiful thing. It's going to be a tough sell, but I suppose that's part of growing up.