Sandra Dee Greenwick is a country gal with a big dream and that’s about it. She came to the big city before ‘08 to be a star, then Fannie Mae perioded all over the world economy, and all the Broadway bigwigs stopped hiring people from below the Mason-Dixon line because they were afraid it was making the corn lobbyists in the audience too horny, leaving good old Sandra Dee flat on her ass on the corner of 7th and 42nd Street, with nothing to show for her dreams but an autograph from the guy who played the crucible in The Crucible and an Annie wig she bartered off a very wealthy rat. This is the title of the movie.
Meanwhile I’m sitting here in the audience and the guy in the row in front of me is glaring like I just killed his grandkid (I didn’t), so I shoot him a smile to calm him down, baring my teeth slowly in a display of aggression. My leg’s getting tired because I’ve been repeatedly kicking the back of his seat to rock him asleep like you would a baby or an old man in a movie theater, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep this shit up.
Anyway, Sandra Dee was raised on a farm so we flash back to her adolescent years to show the audience that this corn-fed sack of shit was weaned on good Judeo-Christian values. Ten minutes of Sandra Dee and her dad discussing their Judeo-Christian values while she pushes fat people off bridges to stop a trolley from disrupting mass. Judeo-Christian mass.
“What?” I whisper at the top of my lungs, flailing my arms about because the theater forgot to install seat belts. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on. I move my head around and my entire field of vision shifts around it. I get closer to things, and they get bigger; I get farther away, and they get bigger. It’s making me fucking bananas. I can’t blink because I’ve heard that colors are in the mind alone and if I close my eyes then they’ll wink out of existence, which wouldn’t be a problem except the movie’s in black and white, and, for a moment, I might not be able to tell myself apart from the characters. (The actors are all really fat, too.)
Back in the movie, Sandra Dee (hereafter, Sandra) is in a bar sipping a mojito from her cupped hands when he walks in: that ugly hunchback everyone remembers from the prequel. A few seconds later, Elliot walks in. Elliot’s one of those feminist corporate hotshots who only raids companies run by women because he thinks it’s easier to take them down when they’re hormonal. He went to Wharton on a class field trip, Bunker Hill for college, and paid his parents back for the tuition with interest because his mom’s already done enough for him, what with carrying him for 9 whole months that time they got lost in a forest in Botswana and he got bored of walking.
Sandra Dee is into him. They lock eyes. She stretches out her hand and introduces herself, but he’s like ten feet away, and it takes him a while to walk over. Meanwhile, she’s standing there with her hand outstretched like a goddamn idiot. But what Sandra Dee lacks in street-smarts she makes up for by being dumb elsewhere, too.
I’m on the edge of my seat, standing up on top of the edge of my seat, chewing on some popcorn I’d been storing in my cheeks since last week and had forgotten about. Movie’s turning me on real good, so I yawn conspicuously and try to put my arms around this chick I’m with, but she’s sitting next to her boyfriend, and she looks at me with a face that says “get off,” even though her body’s saying “get off,” and so are her words and mouth. I laugh it off and try to elbow her in the ribs, but I accidentally miss and honk her boyfriend in the dick. I can’t read the subtitles because there aren’t any.
Elliot’s walking in a quiet confident way that just screams “I have full use of my legs.” Overkill that he’s screaming it, too. He shakes Sandra Dee’s hand, slips her a twenty and his car keys, and asks her to park the Lambo out front while he plays games on his phone. Then he does this thing—which I think is such a cliché, but whatever—where he turns to face the camera and yells out my name. So I panic and start yelling “fire” in this crowded theater as a sort of statement on free speech, but you can barely hear me over the sound of Elliot chanting my name on screen. And. I. Am. Bugging. I wanna look away, but I can’t, because at this point the screen’s engulfed my line of sight (and I’ve already established my unwillingness to blink). Then I realize, duh, I’ve got my 3D glasses on backwards. So I flip those puppies over and pretty much immediately all my visual information collapses into a single infinitely dense point. Have you seen the light show sequence in 2001? It was basically nothing like that. So here I am, mid ocular compression, and every other sense modality goes into overdrive at this point. I am sensing shit you couldn’t even conceive of. I can smell who’s in heat and who’s just pretending. I can tell the color of the M&M’s the man on the seat in front of me is eating by simply shoving my fingers into his mouth and feeling the microtextures on the crunchy candy surface. I can hear the people yelling to the usher to kick me out of the theater. I can feel the tiny hairs on the usher’s arms as he tries to drag me away from my seat. Little does he know I’ve tied a sweater around the seat and my torso, which I wouldn’t have had to do if this fucking theater had seat belts, and there is no way in God’s green hell I’m leaving until I see (or touch or taste or smell) the credits roll.
I really liked the movie, but the MPAA said it was supposed to be PG, and there’s just no way it’s appropriate for kids to see me masturbating in a movie theater.