A light rain or at least a light mist has fallen from the gray sky for much of the day. Any outdoor activities were pretty much squelched except maybe for duck hunting and 1) it wasn’t duck hunting season plus 2) I don’t hunt ducks.
I’d read several chapters of the newest book she bought me, grew wearisome of that and decided to write for a while. This too quickly lost its appeal, realizing I was alone and she was just yards away inside the house. Opportunities for sharing time are precious; I didn’t want to waste it.
Through the years I’ve often commented on classic movies, films from my childhood or adolescence that might be of interest to her. The record will show they certainly left an indiscernible impression of some physiological impact on me.
“Is it in black and white?” - “Is it about war?” or “Is it a western?” she’ll ask. Any one of these three very good questions is common; the answer would only be yes about 50% of the time. (And of course remember that 67% of the time statistics are made up on the spot.)
With the advent of finding and streaming just about any entertainment medium a person could desire via the internet, we came to a quick and simple agreement to trade back and forth. I’ll watch one of her cinematic memories if she’ll watch one of mine. We could easily do this separately on our own, but the intent is to actually relate to the other about something deeper that is inside our head and our heart.
Is that dorky? That’s a funny word, dorky. It's defined as being "socially inept” – or “unfashionable.” It isn’t used inside our home with complete abandon, but not totally improbable to be labeled as a “dork” at least once every two weeks or so.
Horror films are out for her, as is anything with vampires or an overt amount of blood and guts; they aren’t my thing anyway. Documentaries of a military nature or other significant historical event that contain violence are acceptable, but I tend to enjoy those privately.
And she well knows that if I’m going to watch something of her choice – and guys are dancing, they’d really better be guys wearing denim jeans, a Stetson hat and doing the two-step or a slow waltz.
The stories behind the scenes – the casting, the logistics, the interpersonal relationships and the impact on society then and now hold much of the attraction. The devil is in the details and the plot being unfolded in front of the camera isn’t anywhere near the drama going on behind it.
Today’s choice was mine. She asked for something riveting, captivating with intrigue. I chose “Apocalypse Now," a film about an Army Special Ops Captain in Vietnam attached to the First Air Calvary, Tiger Force, sent into the jungle to assassinate another Special Ops soldier – a Colonel, who has gone insane, circa 1968.
She hesitated. “Come on,” I said. “It was directed by Francis Ford Coppola. You loved his vineyard in Napa Valley. The actors are all young fresh faces you’ll know, older and much esteemed now. The gore is at a minimum and the dialogue is full of quotes you’ll recognize. And my cousin, Jerry? He was Special Ops First Air Cav, Tiger Force ’68. Oh, and the music is awesome!”
The clock strikes noon as the popcorn is popped. The play button is selected and it begins, slow and methodical; helicopters, napalm, The Doors singing, “This Is the End.” The mission is assigned and the killer Captain stalks his target; obstacles galore – the Viet Cong, the thick humid jungle, booby traps. The odds are stacked against him.
I enjoy my time pecking at the keyboard like now, telling stories while she takes a break, otherwise known as a nap. The phone just rang. “Yes,” I answer. “Yes…excellent…I’ll be there in 15 minutes. We'll finish the movie then?”
“Sure,” she says, “sure.” The tone lacks conviction.
It’s all about compromise.
