My Husband's a Movie Critic. Here's why I skip 90% of screenings.

"The Artist" is a film I saw...and loved.

Though my husband hosted Sneak Previews, the movie review show on PBS, for twelve years, and has continued to review new movies as a national radio talk-show host for the last 18 years, I seldom go with him to screenings.

Here's why: I don't want anything in my head with violence, suspense or slapstick. If I go to a movie, I want it to be fun, interesting and/or uplifting. You don't need violence, suspense or slapstick for that.

Many people call me a wimp. A whuss. A ridiculous extremist. Let me try to convince you that I'm right to be so picky.

First, violence. I don't like to see people get hurt. I know it's not real, but animation, camera work, "foley" sound and special effects put us in the middle of the gore and mayhem. When I see an image, I don't just forget it. I wince. My brain has taken an indelible snapshot of the scene with its literally sickening, graphic components. Sickening: even in real life, I'm squeamish, and in real life in America, you don't typically see such disgustingly horrible mutilations and murders as screenwriters devise. There is far too much placed before my eyes from the real world without my consent; why would I want to add even more bloodshed to fuel my recollections?

There's been way too much research on the impact of violence on children, and more than necessary on the influence of violence on adults. After the first fifty studies, we should have understood that images, plot lines and even incidental content all change us. Watching violence makes kids more aggressive, and even if it doesn't change actual behavior, it influences how they perceive the world (more menacingly). Please read Michael Medved's classic book Hollywood Vs. America.

He makes the unassailable point that advertisers spend tons of money for sixty seconds of content, which they'd definitely save if they thought their commercials didn't impact anyone. Certainly the TV shows surrounding those commercials sink into our consciousness just as much as the ads. In movie theaters, with all distractions removed and images oh, thirty times life-size, doesn't it make sense that blood spattering across your field of view, with severed limbs or mangled bodies creates an impression that's, well, larger-than-life?

I know: you watched all that stuff and you came out okay. In fact, you keep watching that stuff, and you're a virtuous model citizen who sleeps just fine. Well, you may have a clean slate and your heart might melt at LOL Cats, but this doesn't mean you're unscathed. Desensitization to cruelty and others' suffering, proven in scads of those over-funded studies as an outcome of watching violence, may not express itself overtly or even often, but still offers subtle influences to personality.

Does seeing violence really help you in any way? You can say that it's necessary when telling some stories; that the plot couldn't move forward without it. You could say it, but it's not so. Remember Alfred Hitchcock's movies? He worked during times of strictly imposed standards of the Motion Picture Production Code (called the Hays Code after its champion Will H. Hays, the first president of the Motion Picture Association of America). Yet he was able to clearly communicate horrifying events, causing plenty of nightmares in viewers, without oozing blood, graphic hackings or shocking dismemberment.

And frankly, I don't want to wrap my brain around a story with even implied violence. OK, this may be too wimpy for most, but in my limited hours on earth, I'd rather use my brain cells for less wrenching focus. As a psychologist, I cultivate empathy; if I have any for a fictional screen character--which is what all good writers strive for--then I'll still experience some degree of anguish or discomfort to see the protagonist suffer. There is enough real suffering in the world; for that I reserve my heartfelt caring and distress.

So, I eschew viewing violence. I'll never see an Alfred Hitchcock film, though, due to my second criterion: no suspense.

Well, little suspense. Even the most lighthearted films have some sort of hurdle or obstacle or conflict, and of course these create some level of suspense. Boy meets girl, they fall in love, there's some problem (causing suspense) but it's overcome and, well, Sleepless in Seattle. You've Got Mail. When Harry Met Sally. Biggest RomCom grosser of all time? My Big Fat Greek Wedding.

Why refuse movie suspense? Because suspense is imposed stress. Life is stressful enough, see my note re suffering, above. Some people find tension invigorating. I do, but only self-imposed stress, like when I'm cooking big meals for guests for the Jewish Sabbath and I've got only a few minutes until it begins but three dishes left to finish.

That's blissful stress. I set it up that way; when I do get everything done under the wire, I'm flying into Shabbat. Feelin' good! Feelin' fine! Feelin' in control! If I miss the deadline and have to turn off the oven with the challah bread still baking inside, well, okay, it's my own fail, and I'm still pumped from the exercise of trying. That's why God made freezers--to keep bread ready for when yours isn't quite done on time.

But somebody else imposing unpredictable stress? No thank you. Even if I've begged for the spoiler, and found out the plot turns out fine, I don't want a movie manipulating my emotions like that.

And most of the time, I don't know what will happen, except that the music is getting faster with lots of thumping, and you see the car careening with a very upset driver. That's when I leave the room and don't finish the movie. If I made a poor choice and am stuck inside a dark theater, that's when I duck under my jacket, put my fingers in my ears and start humming. I never have to worry about disturbing my neighbors because that thumping about-to-crash music gets awfully loud.

The Three Stooges. Hilarious?

No, a script-writer's imposed stress is not for me. That brings me to the final movie device I avoid: slapstick.

I don't find people doing stupid things, usually getting injured doing them, funny. The Three Stooges were prime offenders. The cruelty poking eyes, flipping brooms and crowding doorways appalled me as a kid watching the black-and-white TV show. How many pies were pushed onto those guys' faces? What did they have against pie? I did not laugh; I cringed. This does not mean I am humorless, and in fact, I'm the first to laugh at even fairly lame jokes. I just don't laugh at slapstick, because it's always at someone's expense.

As intimated earlier, that leaves me with romantic comedies. Or unromantic comedies. Or interesting stories that aren't even funny, but end up happy (or at least not sad). I prefer exiting a movie more upbeat than when I entered. I prefer being entertained, perhaps with good singing and dancing, as offered in most musicals. But if the show is called "dark" (Into the Woods) or a tragedy (the characters you care about die) or a suspense thriller (duh), there's no chance I'll enjoy it.


Like most people, before taking the hour-and-a-half for the movie plus the extra hour-and-a-half for transportation and mandatory waiting for the show, I check out the film's trailer online. When I saw the one for The Theory of Everything (2014), about handicapped scientist Stephen Hawking, it appeared the film was the story of a couple in love fighting together to overcome a debilitating disease. Looked romantic, but it bothered me to see Hawking succumbing to illness, so I skipped the screening. My husband returned saying that the trailer was misleading--the film was really about the Hawkings' divorce. He said it depicted each's affairs and their split. Rather than an uplifting story of love trumping physical limitation, it apparently told of love's demise.  No matter how well acted or beautifully shot a film, if its story is one of coming apart, betrayal and sadness, it's not for me.

Most people love sharing their responses to movies, and who better to do that with than a real movie critic? If I'm standing by when friends start talking to my husband, I listen politely but only rarely want to see the movie discussed. I've got far too much to accomplish, experience, and heck, just maintain (ie housework) to indiscriminately enter some screenwriter's made-up world. I admire excellent artistry but not at the risk of my sensibilities.

I do enjoy many films, though. The Artist, winner of the Oscar for Best Picture in 2012, is at the top of my list. Why? It was a film in which every character was likeable, yet it told a complex story with a message--and even did it silently, in black-and-white. Recently, I liked Chef, this year's Jon Favreau film, and while we're on the subject of food, Julie and Julia (2009) and The Hundred Foot Journey (2014), were delightful films that met all my criteria.

Which brings me to the final point. Most movies lower the quality of discourse, and drag me into milieus and neighborhoods I'd rather avoid. The ones I appreciate contribute to my enjoyment of the world. I am blessed with a fabulous, exciting life, and while I love broadening it with travel and non-fiction and beautiful images and music and especially study and learning, I want to restrict the tainting influences in our culture as much as possible. So, I'd rather hear a lecture on Jewish text than a movie with profanity. I'd rather even read the newspaper than "experience" a character's grimy, drug-centered downfall. Yes, that limits my experiences to half of the possibilities of life, for surely there is as much negative in the world as positive. But one can be aware of the negative but choose the positive. One can read about criminals and choose admirable people as friends.

So don't expect to see me with my husband at screenings. I'll remain blissfully naive of the latest box-office smash. And as free as possible from gruesome images and soul-wrenching stories, hoping to make the most of this awesome existence.

"Wall-E": Depressingly loaded with People-Bashing

It's not very often that I go to movies, as my criteria are so narrow (no violence, suspense or slapstick)--but attending an advance screening of "Wall-E" with my son and daughter seemed to offer a pleasant evening out with Rated G entertainment.

I'd loved Pixar's "Toy Story," "Cars," "Bug's Life," and "Finding Nemo" (though there was some uncomfortable suspense in that one), so I expected not just great effects but some upbeat music and a sweet ending. I don't think it's a spoiler to say that while most would consider the finale of Wall-E puckeringly sweet, I found it manipulative and unsatisfying. In fact, I found the whole film disappointing. I may be the only reviewer in the United States with that opinion.

I just finished reading the almost poetic praise of the film in the New York Times: "The technical resourcefulness that allows 'Wall-E' to leap effortlessly from the derelict Earth to the pristine atmosphere of the space station is matched by the rigorous integrity the film-makers bring to the characters and the themes." Gag me with a...tower of garbage? Toxic dust-storm? Rusty artifact?

How do you say "We are slothful despoilers of the universe, overcome with our selfish greed and laziness?" Here's how: Take a ruined, gray planet piled high, thanks to an eeeevil corporation, with mountains of rusty tin cans and garbage; plant a cute but lonely (thanks to an old "Hello Dolly" video) ET-guy to clean it up; bring in an advanced ovum-shaped alien searching for life, and in the midst of some irrelevant, bovine, devolved humanoids, have them save the day and at the same time fall in love.

OK, THAT might have had a spoiler or two.

The New York Times, in its barf-able fawning, says the cartoon people (not even slightly as detailed and artistically rendered as the shrouded planet or robots) are US. Grown so fat and lazy our skeletons have shrunk even as we sip supersized milkshakes with extra-long straws handed to us by deferent servants.

If space-station residents in the year 2700 are us, then Andrew Stanton (writer and director), sees the destruction of our humanity: the google-brained people lack all creativity, competition, craving for the transcendent, or connection to family. We are reduced not to mirrors of a movie audience (sunken into our comfy chairs equipped with soda holders) but creatures whose lack of initiative, complacency and carpe diem mentality are clearly inferior to the mechanical beings who wistfully yearn for love and collect souvenirs of a once thriving culture (complete with Rubik's cube).

And let's not forget that it was a corporation--named "Buy 'n Large" of course, in a stab at WalMart and perhaps even Costco--that herded humanity toward its willing demise.

The movie is riddled with logical lapses. Buy n' Large, after corralling the almost-all-racially white population of the entire world onto its space station, leaves only a few machines, clearly produced waaaaay before the capability to MAKE a space station, to box up all the detritus of an entire planet. With obviously uncharacteristic ingenuity, Wall-E is able to thwart his obsolescence to keep chugging along for 700 years.

Now, the corporation supposedly was not going to make good on its original pledge to return humanity to Earth after the place was habitable....and yet, inexplicably, a wildly futuristic probe containing the gendered EVE-A (subtle reference--get it?) arrives to look for growing life, prerequisite to man's re-population. Somehow, with her eerie magenta search-flashes, EVE manages to miss Wall-E's cockroach sidekick--HE doesn't count as life, but a withered seedling that somehow had germinated in darkness, DOES. The seedling manages to remain green throughout lots of mishandling and a supersonic voyage; the cockroach, Wall-E's only friend, remains unacknowledged.

Enough. The film's a disappointment. Great effects, but to a depressing message. Yes, Eva and Wall-E fall in love, but for non-reproducing, un-marriageable robots, that's hardly a happy ending--when the rest of us remain such shlubs.

No Violence, Suspense or Slapstick--or lesbian come-outs, PLEASE!

Confession: I am NOT a movie maven. I do not go to movies very often, like most of the American population. This is especially bizarre because I am connected by marriage to the movie biz, and my more interesting half attends several movies a week. Not necessarily alone, but without me. My criteria for movies, which I suspect applies to more women than care to admit it, are: no violence, suspense or slapstick. Which eliminates 98% of movies.

And, which leaves romantic comedy. We could go on and on about Borat, which I did happen to see, and which I did laugh at, but which I felt smarmy about. Borat, you see, fails in category 3: no slapstick. And why? Because I do not like to see people behaving stupidly, or taking advantage of others' goodness, and the premise of Borat does both. Brings out the lowest aspects of character: "Let's find some well-meaning, unsuspecting hick, trap him into being embarrassing or racist, or maybe WE can just embarrass him, and then the audience will laugh uproariously!" I find that, well, unfunny. Uncomfortable. Unethical.

OK, call me old-fashioned. Call me humorless. Oh heck, call me a spoil sport. But I feel badly that I laughed at various scenes in Borat. The scene where the kids at the park are scared witless when the ice-cream truck offers not frozen treats but a ferocious bear--that is the essence of comedy, the epitome of "out-of-place," but to laugh at kids who are genuinely terrified? What kind of sadistic person is THAT?

But Borat is not the subject of my post tonight. No, it's the new "romantic comedy," Gray Matters. I actually accompanied my spouse to a pre-release screening of this "romantic comedy," and I found the film to be neither romantic nor a comedy. Why even bother to write about it, then? Because I was surprised by the film. It starts out innocently enough--a cute couple who live in the same apartment and share all turn out to be brother and sister rather than lovers. And they decide it's time to find mates; the guy (Thomas Cavanagh) has a too-cute meet with a happens-to-be-available dog owner in the park (Bridget Moynahan) and within two days they're engaged. The left-out sister (Heather Graham) gets jealous, and wants in on the relationship with the newbie, and her shrink says it's natural she'd be competing, given the inseparability the sibs had before.

So far, it seems like it could be cute, but it gets nasty when a drunken girl-to-girl kiss convinces the sis that she's gay. Could be a plot twist that gets ironed out in the end...or so I hoped, but NOOOOOO, THAT'S THE WHOLE MOVIE!! The point is that a girly-girl like bleached-blond Heather Graham is really gay, and becomes liberated by 1) casting off her shrink, and 2) going to a gay bar, picking up her boss, (cut to Heather emerging from boss' apartment next morning) and leaping with joy a la Mary Tyler Moore when yes, it's confirmed she LIKES "sex" with a woman! I feel cheated. Not only was Heather Graham the most unconvincing lesbian imaginable; not only was the message that "lesbians can be pretty" too far a stretch for this flimsy plot, but if you're going to make a pro-lesbian movie, don't make the transition, from dawning of the possibility to its ecstatic consummation, cover the space of two days. This was supposed to be a movie that meets my criteria; my night out at the cinema, and all I got was...disgusted! Oh, I don't care if some girl wants to be a lesbian...just don't try to wrap that up in the normality of some boy-meets-girl cover.

I think my husband owes me a better movie for our night out. And it better NOT be "300." Violates my criterion number 1.