LITTLE ROCK — Apologizing for the rude behavior of your wife and your mother at the movies is difficult enough in person. But today, sadly, I must apologize in print, because there’s no way to know who was sitting near us the other night, watching the excellent George Clooney thriller The American.
And if you were nearby, you deserve an apology.
We thought it was a shoot ’em up espionage picture set in beautiful Italy. On my recommendation, my wife, the twins and Yia-Yia piled into the car. The twins are high school freshmen.
“A George Clooney movie?” said Yia-Yia, a sprightly lady of a mere 80 winters. “He’s so cute. Let’s go.”
Yes, it was R-rated, but I thought the rating was about the killing.
It’s a story of a stoic hit man, a minimalist of death, so you expect a little blood. But nobody in our group became upset, not even when the Swedes got it in the snow.
That came later, when George was in a horizontal position with the lovely young prostitute. She was naked and smiling. That’s when George’s head disappeared from the screen.
“Ye gods!” shrieked Yia-Yia, rattling her popcorn bag at her grandsons, hoping to distract them. “Ye gods!”
“Psssst!” my wife hissed at me from farther down the row, pointing at the boys, then at the screen. “Pssst!”
I made one of those befuddled, fatherly, “What can I do, stop the movie because George Clooney is having sex with a beautiful woman?” gestures.
So my wife grabbed the cellophane wrappers from a package of Sour Patch Kids-you know how loud cellophane can be in the dark-and crinkled it savagely to distract her sons.
But our boys were focused on the fine acting.
“Stop it,” said one. “You’re embarrassing us.”
Later, I got an earful for not fully reading the reviews. And the boys gave us an earful because we’d committed a grievous sin: the sin of public embarrassment.
If your children still watch movies about lost toys and dinosaurs and such, you probably can pick the kids up with one hand. Young children don’t mind going out for ice cream with you-even if they might be seen by their friends. But parents of teenagers can embarrass them merely by breathing in public.
And when Yia-Yia shouts “Ye gods! Ye gods!” in a movie theater and the mom savages the candy wrappers, it’s so embarrassing that we all but ruined their lives.
Some of you will say that high school freshmen are more worldly than their parents could possibly know or admit, and that’s probably true. And though I kept my mouth shut while my wife and mom made all the noise, I admit it: I’m a prude when it comes to sex scenes on the screen when my kids in the same room.
Killing? No problem. But sex? That’s a big problem.
I guess that’s what makes me an American.
Others told me about their mortifying experiences as children, at the movies with the parents.
“I was the youngest, about 12, and after church one day my mom and dad took us all to the movies,” said a young woman. “My mom loved thrillers.”
What was the movie?
Basic Instinct.
John Kass is a columnist for the Chicago Tribune.
Editorial, Pages 14 on 09/28/2010