10 Movies That Made Me Cry, But Shouldn't Have

I'm an easy crier. Sometimes it's good to cry (like funerals, or diamond commercials) and other times it's just stupid. Here is a list of the top ten movies that made me cry, and I'm really, really embarrassed by it.
1. Love, Actually. Point of tears: the entire last fifteen minutes of the film.
I loved Four Weddings and a Funeral. I had a little Hugh Grant crush at the time. I looked up Georges Sand in my Encyclopedia Britannica after Impromptu just to see if those crazy kids made it (they didn't). Love, Actually doesn't have enough Hugh in it. What it does have is Liam Nielson reenacting the Titanic "Jack! I'm Flying!" scene with his son. I wept loudly from sheer frustration, choking on the words "I don't like this movie!!!". I might have thrown up a little too. A cry of hysteria.
2. Coyote Ugly. Point of tears: When the girls dance on the bar for the first time.
I was 26 when I caught this on cable. I thought to myself, "God, I am glad that's not me. Look at those shallow, deluded girls. Caught up in the misogyny machine and they're too stupid to know it...although it does look fun. I could do that....but I can't dance. Also, I'm too old. I'm OLD!!!!! TOO OLD FOR BAR DANCING IF I COULD DANCE!!!!" I then had a good, long cry as Tyra Banks danced to Pour Some Sugar on Me.
3. The Last Temptation of Christ. Point of tears: when Jesus and the Apostles enter Jerusalem. As an ex-Christian, I am familiar with the story of Jesus, beginning to end. As an ex-Baptist, I was to find salvation in the Blood of the Lamb. Needless to say, that arrangement didn't really pan out for me, but I hold a great deal of respect for Jesus's work. Anyway, watching this joyous entrance to the city where he meets his fate, with a soundtrack provided by Peter Gabriel, creates in me that rarefied happy/sad cry.
4. The New World. Point of tears: the opening sequence. I love, love, love Terrence Malick. He is my favorite Texan. His movies aren't for everyone, though. He can say too little, his edits are not quickly made, his characters are not extraordinary. But his imagery is poetic, and this film, his rendition of the Captain Smith/Pocahontas love affair, encompasses so much more than just two lovebirds. A beautiful film, and a wonder-filled cry.
5. Far and Away. Point of tears: Tom Cruise's death. Now, I'm not one for achey-breaky hearts. I'd rather roll my eyes and blow smoke into their corny faces. But this one came around at the right time and had all of the right elements: Opie directed it, Oklahoma is the prize, and OMG it's true love. She brings him back to life! What can I say? Everyone has a favorite flavor of candy. A cry of relief.
6. Superman Returns. Point of tears: the opening sequence. What is it with me and titles? A cry of welcome.
7. Star Wars: Episode III-Revenge of the Sith. Point of tears: Anakin/ Obi-Wan's battle.
I've seen every Star Wars film in the theaters save the first. My point? I have a vested relationship with this franchise, and dammit I was glad to see the end. A cry of exhaustion.
8.Every Single Disney Movie Ever Made. Point of tears: any/all transitions. When Aerial looked up at her father as she turned into a human at the end of a Little Mermaid? When Abu was knocked unconscious when he and Aladdin were banished into the snow? When Jessie the Yodeling Cowgirl remembers the good times with her owner, set to a song sung by Sarah McLachlan? Yes. All yes. Cries of yesterdays, and tomorrow.
9. Brokeback Mountain. Point of tears: Ennis clutches Jacks old shirt. This movie got tied up into so many different knots. It's a monolith now. But when I saw it, before it became a standard, it was sort of a simple film. The last ten minutes are hard on a body. A cry of sorrow.
10. Apollo 13. Point of tears: when they blasted off. I have no idea why I began to cry when these astronauts were rocketed into space. Maybe it was because they all wanted so badly, and it's nice to see someones dreams come true. Of course, we know they're in for a bad ride, so maybe the gladness is tempered with foreboding? A cry of forbearance.

So that is that. There will be more inconsequential tears over silly moments, no doubt. But even I can't tell where or when at this point. Try not to point and laugh.

Rattle It

This weekend the boys and I made the pilgrimage to Magum, Oklahoma to participate in the bizarre glory of the annual Rattlesnake Derby. It's grown a bit since I was a kid; there are more vendors of inflatable plastic children's characters, more funnel cake and corn dog eateries, and accordingly more fat lower middle class people than you could shake a stick (or a snake) at. My boys wanted one of everything. Rattlesnake head suspended in formaldehyde in a Mason Jar ($8 ea.)? A ride on the (dilapidated) kiddie roller coaster ($2 ea.)? A bite of deep fried snake with a sip of Coke ($4 ea.)? Check, check, check.
The first stop was the Snake Pit. After traversing the ambulatory of flea market goods, we dived right into the Pit, a large makeshift tent. Inside two cowboys equipped with microphones walked around an enclosed oval filled with roughly 1000 snakes (it's hard to estimate snakes-they are fond of the dog pile). As they walked they would pull random snakes up with their "snake sticks" to explain how one may determine the animal's age, sex, etc. Rattlers struck their leather boots indeterminately as they lectured. The boys, quickly bored, were ready for the midway.
Emerging again into the sunshine, we made our way to the Snake boxes. Like the Pit these boxes contained an ungodly amount of venomous reptiles. These pressed board boxes were free and open to the public however, and one was separated from the snakes by two layers of chicken wire spaced two inches apart. Still this was tiresome. We needed oily food, big and sugary quaffs of soda, and rides on spinning strawberries.
After the midway funds were depleted and substances were consumed, we made our last stop into the Butchers' Shop ($1 for adults- kid's free). This has been, and remains, my personal favorite. It is a small space; 1/2 of it is bare concrete covered by elderly bleachers. The other half, separated from bleachers by a press board divider, is where bad rattlers go to meet their maker. The butcher, a middle aged man who told the audience he'd kept company with the Captain all day, was assisted by a high school aged boy with yet another snake stick. A snake was extracted from the pit by the boy with the stick, the body was laid across a tree stump and with some fanfare it's head was removed with an ax. The butcher then took the body and strung it by a wire over plastic shower, skinned and disemboweled it as it still writhed. As he did so, this man cut out the still beating heart and ate it. Amazing!
The day was over after that. We retired to the ranch for some four wheeler fun and spaghetti. My boys were delighted, dirty, and full of strange food. What a story for their classmates tomorrow.

Born Taking a Nap

I used to think that Steve Martin was really, really funny. It's not in your face, farts-n-barf, let's laugh at the drunk/woman/handicapped fare that's making the rounds today, but it's still pretty good.
Funny, yeah? So when did Steve turn into a boring old man? I think it was around here somewhere:
That's the biggest laugh of the whole film, Bowfinger. A film he wrote. He also wrote an autobiographical novel, Born Standing Up, in which he recounts his rise and fall as a stand up comedian. Here are the not so funny nuts and bolts of making a comedy genius: he is a boy, he is a young man, he is an old man. Ha ha ha. I couldn't read it all, to be honest. I found other things to be more important, like searching for coins in the depths of the couch so that I could buy Bratz tattoos at Wal-Mart. My supply had run terribly low. Good for sleepy times.

A little while ago, at a dinner party, a friend of mine asked me if I had read Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert yet. I said no, she said you must, and I have now read it. Was my time wisely spent? Will I see the film version of it starring the beautiful Julia Roberts? Did I even get to pray, or love? No. I wanted to like this book, a memoir of a woman's' journey of self discovery in Italy, Indonesia and India wherein she follows the dictum's of the title in order. All I came away with was a more fervent fear of age and wisdom. Gone is ignorance! Farewell impulse! Woe the day! Good for for most, excluding me.

Suspended Animation

Identity theft; a thing of Dateline fodder, conspiricists' diatribe, and as of today, a huge mess that I get to clean up. Somebody stole my identity! Apparently, this person or persons have been going on some joy rides on my ticket for a while now. I just don't know what to think? I'm not Oprah, you know, there really isn't that much to steal nor is the identity in question that wonderful. I'm just a girl....with no identity!
The worst part about it all are the telluric, cynical, doughy sorts that inhabit the cubicles which hold the various papers I must sign and pass, sign and pass. I wonder who or what gets their turgid fluids flowing? George Clooney....or President Bush....or perhaps this? There's no way to know! I am at a loss! Everyone is suspect! Except me, that's one. And my husband, two.
The best part about it is that there isn't a best part. It makes for a very dashing yet terrifying ghost story to tell the moms at T-Ball practice. Unless one of those bitches did it. Which reminds me, I need to clear the air:
An Open Letter to the Person(s) With My Identity,
HAHAHAHAHA! I have nothing! Suck on that!

The City of Persians

When I run across a woman's testament of her time of trial, and it is done with heart, humor, and style, I love her very much. Marjane Satrapi is an artist and a writer; she weaves a beautiful yet troubling portrait of life in her native Iran. Persepolis is a lovely film and one of the few that grants us a glimpse into the lives of those who have lived in Iran. It begins, of course, when she is a child and as a little girl she is fascinated with martyrdom, blood, integrity. As she grows into a woman, she is less inclined towards state imposed ideals. Little Marjane just wants to rock. She is sent away from her family and her homeland into the world of the Germans where she discovers the life of the modern Westerner. Terror is behind her it seems. But wait, here is love, freedom, vulgarity! Marjane is completly open, like a wound, in these recounts. Soon she goes back to Iran to only find the same avenue open to her again. Leave, or die.
Satrapi's artwork is beautifully spare yet ornate. The pervasive intertwining of the atmospheric Western charcoal with the Persian geometrical patterns are fused in a way rarely seen. Persepolis is a winning film; a funny, human, gravely animated story that lingers like jasmine. Plus, she sings like me.

Ex Libres

Ah, books. Let's get started, shall we?
Tom Cruise: the Unauthorized Biography, by Andrew Morton, isn't a bad read. For all of the shoutin' you'd think there would be a fire, but you would be wrong. By all accounts, Mr. Cruise is a man. An extraordinary man, perhaps, but just a man. Tommy comes off as any actor you might have met before: somewhat devoid of personality, needy, afraid to be alone. I got the sense that Tom Cruise found a formula and stuck with it, be it relationships, work, family, his own persona, etc. Who hasn't done this? Granted I lack his egomania, his tireless ambition, and his religion, which is a little on the crazy side.
Andrew Morton is apparently in hiding after publishing this book; I can only assume it's because he will go on an on about Scientology. As the real villain of the piece Scientology looms behind every decision in Tom's life, scheming diabolically while twirling it's mustache. There are many, many claims about this "cult"( Tom Cruise can move things with his mind!?!). I can't say with any surety that this religion has committed the scary, oppressive, very, very wrong actions Morton has accused it of because the author has a rather tarnished reputation himself. What I can surmise, however, is that Tom Cruise likes control and playing pretend and Scientology is all about those things. This is a biography that sketches out a bizarre, often hilarious/pitiful life. Good for incredulous voyeurism.

If I know anything about China, it's that the Chinese are absolute traditionalists-so far as any one thing can be applied to a mulitude. Many novels seek to display the tug of war between duty and identity set in China (see Tan, Amy), but this one has a little twist. Snowflower and the Secret Fan, by Lisa See, is about the lifelong relationship harbored by two women, Snowflower and Lily, in Imperial China. Lily is a poor but compliant and Snowflower is willful and spoiled; their respective circumstances change in the course of the novel. Together they endure foot binding (this is a wonderfully painful passage to read-yikes), contracting husbands, new families, babies, rebellion and at last old age and death but they do so primarily through a secret language used by females called nu shu (the girls write passages on a fan that they share). As the reader, you are inundated by the mundane aspects of their lives; the feminine labors of house and family are exotic yet rote. It's the traditions and expectations of that bind the girls (particularly filial obligations) and bring out their character. Lily, our narrator, subjugates herself to conventions and eventually loses herself in them. Snowflower, less inclined towards custom and made of stronger stuff, seeks nothing but friendship and companionship. Of course you know what happens, but it's a good and satisfying read nonetheless. Good for instruction.

Southern Gothic

I love the American South. When I moved there at 19 it was like moving to a different country, where literally everything was Topsy-turvy. But what does anyone know when they are 19? I married a Southerner and periodically we travel there for family functions, as we did this past weekend.
I am not as pliant as I used to be, nor do I have such a deep well of energy and wonder. I prefer to be by myself. All of these conditions conspire against me during the Southerner Extravaganzas that are the birthday parties, national holidays, or the just-fors. Inevitably I depart from home questioning this foreign culture. For instance: why are women and men and children so separated? Why must we always, always eat and drink richly? Why does no one go outside? How is it that only white people attend the functions while only black people serve them? Why must women be painted and trussed while men are, well, not? Curious and curiouser.
The southern Bourgeoisie are the opposite of myself and the knowledge stings. I am a loner, an intellectual, a feminist, an atheist, a proletariat, as well as being of Mediterranean/Midwestern stock; I am very much of an iconoclast amongst the iconodules. It makes for awkward conversation around the feta dip. But all things come to an end, and I am safely ensconced once more in the heavenly bosom of Oklahoma. This is a place where I possess all of those nettling virtues but the culture sees me as a rare, exotic bird, not as Mikey's Stupefying Consort.

Columbine, Per se Notum

I was in college when the tragedy of Columbine happened, and I suppose I thought the distance between myself and HS safely cocooned me against living/dying in that kind of horror. I thought to myself as I watched the kids scramble out of windows (and I know this is selfish), "Thank God I'm not there." It didn't occur to me that one day I'd be working in a school, or that I would have children going to school, or indeed that school-my haven-could be my undoing. Filmmaker and auteur Gus van Sant was brave enough to make a film about Columbine. Watching Elephant is like watching the Titanic sink from the safety of the lifeboats.

Elephant won the Palme d' Or in 2003, and is typical of many van Sant films. They have to do with Americanisms, youth, and expectations; couple this with a broad spectrum of misfits and you get the idea that his style is a wee outre. In this film we're in a nameless, gargantuan HS filled with faceless students going to class, talking in the halls, eating in the cafeteria, etc. Now and again we meet and get to know a handful of kids; there is the Jock and His Girlfriend, the Nerd, the Furies, the Artists, and the Get-Along Kid who knows them all. The camera floats behind them in long, long takes as we listen in and watch them as though we are babysitters, or predators. Inconsequential sequences stall in slow motion, only to speed back up to normal. We watch them in a deja vu loop, their stories break continuity again and again as we follow another character only to see the kid we were just watching from the other point of view. Slowly all of the random lines stop appearing as chaos and become rote pattern. The outsiders to this calculation are our murderers; two gangly boys largely ignored save bullying. Of course, the Titanic sinks and what had become comfortingly familiar twists into terror with the first shot.

Gus van Sant is a brilliant but not infallible filmmaker. There is a cold detachment maintained at all times from true engagement with the characters; I didn't cry for them as they died. But I was shocked and appalled. I marveled at the boy's lack of mercy, and how quickly the mundane became monstrous. Thank God I wasn't there, I thought again.