Thursday, June 30, 2011
"Sure, what is it?" he asked.
"Something called Teeth. I think it's nouveau artsy." And I really did think that. Last year we'd seen some other artsy movie and in a spate of good intentions I had put every single artsy preview on our Netflix Queue. Of course the new seasons of Big Love, Entourage and Weeds push those movies down the list but every now and then one of the arthouse films slips through. When they arrive I feel obligated to watch them. They're like the indie publishers of the movie world.
I don't think I need to explain the bloody gore that followed. I'm sure your imaginations are up to the task but suffice it to say that my poor husband curled up in a ball and whimpered, "This is a horror film for men!"
Okay, so I might have been laughing a little bit. It was the kind of ridiculous campy thing that always strikes my funny bone. "Maybe it gets better," I said between giggles. My husband grabbed the little envelope with the movie's description, the one I'd neglected to read and shook his head.
"I can't watch this," he said as he stalked out of the T.V. room. Before he left he turned back and said, "Honey, what kind of a movie is this to show me on Father's Day?"
I felt a little bad, honestly I did. But the scene where the pervey ob-gyn's fingers get bitten off and he holds them up screaming "Vagina Dentata is real, Vagina Dentata is real," totally made up for it. Later that night I told my husband, "It's post-feminist comedy staged as horror."
"Just three or four." He winced. I'm still feeling a little guilty about showing it to him on Father's Day. Maybe I'll whip up his favorite chocolate cake this week to make up for it. I wonder if he'll think it's funny if I hide a pair of plastic teeth inside of it?