Butterfly & The Black Dahlia

Sometimes the movie going experience is fraught with peril.

As an avid moviegoer, I accept that some movies will not be as good as others. Some movies will be average. In fact, most movies are average. Not horrible, not great, just so-so. But I sit through those movies in hopes that after so many average movies there may eventually be a great one.

A great movie does not have to be beloved by critics to make it great. Sometimes, you can find a great movie by accident. Those are my favorites. You go out to sit through a movie, trying not to get your hopes up, and there it is – one that is good or so good you have to have it as part of your permanent collection.

And then there are those that make you groan in disbelief that you actually parted with $8.50 of your hard earned money to sit through the equivalent of a root canal. Or watching people badly act as if they are the ones having the root canal.

Such was my experience this past Friday. It started out innocently enough. Angie had asked me to go to a “movie night” hosted by her college Spanish Class. She told me the movie would be in Spanish with English subtitles. At first I wasn’t interested, but then she reminded me I had dragged her to a book discussion by a Holocaust-era writer at Midway Village earlier this year. So, I relented.

So, we went to Rock Valley College and watched Butterfly – based on the brief Republican era in Spain’s history before Nationalist Franco took over – in Spanish (with English subtitles for those of us not in the class). The story was told from the perspective of a little boy whose father is a closet Republican in a Nationalist neighborhood. Mostly, though, it revolved around the boy’s relationship with his Republican teacher. It was a pretty good movie, and there was some passionate discussion by students afterwards trying to interpret the puzzling ending.

Angie and I had already decided we wanted to see a “real” movie afterwards, mostly because she had a sitter for the night. My mom had shown some interest in going to a movie with us, and knowing her passion for whodunit murder mysteries (and based on the previews we’d seen), Angie and I thought The Black Dahlia might be the perfect movie. I still suggested Little Miss Sunshine, but (yet again) transportation and circumstance made it difficult.

So, we took my mother to see the Black Dahlia. Poor mom. Poor us. The move was…mostly smut. And that’s the best I can say about it. Perhaps Mom summed it up best when she said, “It was like a visit to Sodom and Gomorrah.” She told me she went home and prayed for forgiveness and told me that she hoped I had done the same.

Take into consideration that Mom sees maybe three to four movies a year. Angie and I see a great deal more, and so, even though we were disappointed and disgusted, we know how movies can be. I had to promise Mom that next time I would take her to a “safe” romantic comedy. Yikes! Now I have to sit through one of those of my own volition. See what I do to myself!!!

Oh well, it wasn’t a total loss. We did get to see the attractive Josh Hartnett take his shirt off. But Mom said it still wasn’t enough to redeem the movie.

See, this all could have been avoided if we had just gone to see Little Miss Sunshine.