The rules of movie night are simple: A and M alternate weeks picking the movie, and no one else has input. The rule is iron-fisted.
Or it used to be. On June 11, 2008, everything changed.
After a dinner of excellent Mexican food, M started the movie. It was The Whole Wide World. The DVD menu looked a little sketchy, with a sun-drenched photo of Renee Zellweger and Vincent D'Onofrio having a picnic. Dark mutterings were heard.
"Is... is this a chick flick?"
M held his ground. "It's a good movie! Really!"
I'm a reasonable guy. "Let's give it ten minutes," I said.
The film began. We all looked desperately for any sign that it was not a chick flick. A cow appeared in an opening shot. "Beef!" Justin shouted.
D'Onofrio and some other dude were shown standing by a car. "The car's a Peterbilt!" Justin shouted. (He's really good at this.) "Those guys better start beating the shit out of each other," I said.
It was not to be. The elements were all lined up: Zellweger is a country girl in Texas in the 1930s. She wears simple frock dresses and drinks lemonade on the front porch, dreams of being a writer and reads The Smart Set. She's submitted stories to magazines; while none have been published, she keeps trying because, you know, she really believes or something.
"How many minutes into your ten-minute trial period are we?" M asked.
"Nine and a half," I answered. (The real answer was something like four. It just seemed longer.)
We watched in silence for a bit longer. Justin cracked first.
"Man, FUCK this movie!"
The merciless mockery had clearly been bothering M, and this was the breaking point. "All right, you assholes! Fine! You assholes don't want to watch this movie, fine! I got something that'll man you right up, you assholes!"
So we watched Blast of Silence instead. A black and white early-60s noir about a sociopathic, racist, homophobic hitman, that opens with a voiceover about how being born fucked you up forever.