My wife and I have very different tastes in movies. I'm usually up for a good comedy; maybe a political thriller every now and then. Mel is all about the gangster movies. Since her father introduced her to them at the tender age of five (when some of us were watching cartoons), Mel's been a Goodfellas, Godfather and Casino-lover.
And I. Hate. Them.
Maybe hate is not the right word, but they give me the heeblie-jeeblies, what with their celebration of violence, ego and cruelty. I get enough of that in the news, I don't need to watch Pesci beat someone's face in with a bat.
Last night we watched Drive. Which I'm very ready to admit is a good movie. I can appreciate the craftsmanship that went into a gangster movie, even as it makes me squirm. Mel loved it. Quelle suprise.
And I dreamed about being murdered. Several times. Having my face kicked in. Having my throat cut. Being blown up. The good thing about a "dying dream" is you figure out you're dreaming fairly quickly. You continue existing, past having your jugular opened and the lightbulb goes off. But that doesn't make the night pass any smoother.
Mel, I'm glad you liked Drive. Ryan Gosling, I'm glad you're nominated for an Oscar.
You both owe me one night of sleep.