The American

So the other Saturday Tracy and I decide to ditch the boy and go catch an afternoon movie. We were almost giddy. We had both seen the trailers for The American and thought it was a no-lose proposition. George Clooney. In Europe. With the sniper rifle.

In hindsight, we should have done a little more detective work. The movie consisted of 103 minutes of advanced gunsmithing, punctuated by two minutes of violence and nudity.

Now I don't really know the origin of the word matinee... I'm guessing it's French. And based on our experience with this one, I'm guessing the translation is something akin to "what grandma and grandpa do just after lunch". Unexpectedly, we (along with one other couple) were the youngest people in the theater by a good thirty years... which turns out to be a problem for only two reasons:

1) Watching romantical scenes in a theater is awkward. Watching them in a theater thick with old-timers is not an improvement. We didn't do our homework before choosing the film... I still can't sleep at night thinking that they had.

2) Hearing aids make a particularly high pitched sound when they need adjusting... or batteries... or crushing. If we were watching anything but this sleepy turd, this wouldn't have been a problem. As it was, the entire movie was scored with something akin to a dog whistle... a painful wail only two couples seemed to hear.

Worst movie ever.

After the movie, I ducked in the bathroom to rid myself of the diet coke I had been nursing for two straight hours. While washing up, I notice (perhaps erroneously) that I might look just the tiniest bit like George Clooney. Walking through the lobby, I have the audacity to mention this this imaginary resemblance to Tracy. The best part? She says without a hint of sarcasm, "I was just thinking the same thing".

Best movie ever.