Movietalkers
It is quite possible I’ve turned into that most dreaded of entertainment consumers: the movietalker. I first became aware of the movietalker years ago when I was watching a television program after dinner with my family, including my Grandma Fricke. Grandma Fricke was the Grand Dame of movietalkers. We were watching “Matlock,” which, for those of you unfamiliar with classic television, was an early mystery/courtroom drama; a precursor to CSI only without the kinky deaths and creepy characters. “Matlock” was the “Little House on the Prairie” of crime-solving shows, featuring the wholesome Andy Griffith. Because this was before the invention of family rooms, we all gathered in the living room to watch. In the first scene, Andy Griffith walked upstairs. “Where is he going?” my Grandmother said. “Upstairs,” my father said. “Shhhh,” my brother said. “Why is he going upstairs?” my Grandmother said. “We’ll see,” my father said. “It’s a nice carpet,” my Grandmother commented. “Oriental.” “I’d like one of those on my stairs,” my mother said. “Our carpet’s not even ten years old yet,” my father said. “Have you looked at it lately?” my mother said. “Shhh!” my sister said. This is how movietalkers operate. They involve others in their conversations, until the majority of viewers are participating and entire scenes are obliterated by their chatter. If you live alone and would like to simulate the movietalker effect, simply turn on a favorite program, and flip the channel every five minutes to a different show. Watch that show for a good thirty seconds, and then flip back to your original program. Repeat until your program is over, or until you jump out the window. Because movietalkers predate DVR systems, focused viewers were stuck with enormous plot holes created by critical missing dialogue and action, even. This is because, in its extreme form, the movietalker will get up and point to something on the screen and say, “Your Uncle Ken used to have a clock just like this one.” In doing so, the movietalker will cover up the murder that is occurring just behind her outstretched arm! It is frustrating. In the case of the Matlock movietalker scenario, I believe my siblings and I might have even left the living room and gone to the basement to watch on the markedly inferior television down there. Historical note: This was before “good” televisions were normally found in American basements. At this time in the United States, most basements smelled like wet golden retrievers and were festooned with pull-chain lightbulbs and furnished with stuff other relatives were planning to donate to the Salvation Army. Fast-forward to a few weeks ago, when my college son was home for the weekend. He likes to watch films; no mindless comedies for him. My husband and I often complain that we deal with enough real-life angst; we don’t want to relive it on a Saturday night. But we consented to compromise with that light little Roman romp, “Gladiator.” There’s a particularly horrific scene where a child is trampled. “Oh no!” I cried. “That can’t be!” My son stopped the action. “Look, you two. We can all see that the boy was trampled. Why do you have to discuss it?” “I was hoping he wasn’t dead,” I said. Turning to my son, I said, “Are you always this irritable?” My son stood up. “I can’t watch this with you two,” he announced. He left. We were stunned. We turned the movie back on. A few minutes later, I turned to my husband. “It wasn’t clear he was trampled to death.” “I know!” he said. “I don’t think we’re movietalkers, do you?” “No way,” he said, rewinding the film back to the part we had missed due to our insightful commentary.
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