The Show Before the Movie

My girlfriend and I decided to go see the new film, The Hangover on Sunday. We went to the Century City Mall to do a little shopping and what not before the movie and then caught the flick at the AMC theatre located in the mall. The day turned out to be quite entertaining. While waiting for my babe to finish trying on some clothes, I had the pleasure of sitting next to a man who had completely lost his mind. Wearing two long sleeved flannel shirts, both buttoned all the way up, I listened to him talk to his imaginary therapist for about ten minutes. To be honest, I felt bad for him; but that sympathy was second to the fear I felt that he might stab me with a spoon at any second. Thankfully, I made it out of the experience without getting spooned and walked over to buy the movie tickets.

When I walked into the theatre, I ended up standing in line behind a 60-year-old man who apparently thought he was from the future. He was wearing golden cat-woman glasses, the kind where the frame extends to about four inches on either side of the head. His v-neck t-shirt was a peachy color and looked as if it were made from the leftover pleather from his living room sofa. His pants boasted neon green circles dangling from the seams and his shoes sat on platforms that raised him off the ground an extra six inches. I thought about asking him where/when he was from but I figured I had already gotten lucky escaping from Captain Flannel and if I pushed it even further I might be sliced in half with a light saber.

But my luck had not run out just yet. As we were walking into the theatre, I looked ahead of me to see a big guy, about 6’4” with broad shoulders and brillo pad hair down to his shoulders. “Who does this guy think he is, Gene Simmons,” I said to my girlyfriend. “Are you serious?” she responded. “That is Gene Simmons”. Sure enough, when we entered the crowded theatre and reluctantly took our seats in the front row, Mr. Simmons and his wife and child plopped down next to us. Necks strained, we all peered up at the screen for the next hour and a half and laughed our collective asses off at one of the funnier movies I’ve seen in recent years.

As I almost do, I had some apprehension regarding the movie. I feared that it might fall into the same pitfall that the majority of Vegas movies do; the over-the-top, slap-stick humor that follows no plot line. My fears were soon put to rest though by a comedy that maintained a feeling of suspended reality that can only be found in Sin City throughout its entirety. The perfectly-cast film made the utterly ridiculous seem not only believable, but reminiscent of my own Vegas memories (subject for another entry). And so I say “Hazzah” to Jon Lucas and Scott Moore for a well-written film, and thank you to Heather Graham for the gratuitous booby shot.