Willingness

 I have made it a practice in my life not to walk out of a movie until the final credits roll. This has put me in good position to catch all of those post credit bits for which directors have become so very fond, dating all the way back for me to Animal House, which included a slide as the curtains were closing encouraging those left in the theater to visit Universal Studios when visiting Hollywood. And to ask for Babs. Then there was the additional scene where Ferris Beuller comes back and wonders why we're still sitting there after watching him take his Day Off. And these days, no one wants to be in the lobby when the next Marvel tease comes along just as the lights are starting to go up. 

That said, there have ben a number of challenges to this rule by which I live. One of the most memorable came while enduring A Pyromaniac's Love Story. If you missed this little bit of celluloid, it stars a Baldwin brother, but not the good one. And John Leguizamo. And a whole bunch of other folks who probably wish that they could remove any evidence of this ponderous romantic comedy from Al Gore's Internet. I went to see it with my wife, with whom I had also sat through So I Married An Ax Murderer and lived to tell the tale, and a friend of ours. A half an hour through the Pyromaniac's Love Story, there was fidgeting on the part of my companions, and by the midway point there were whispered pleas for us to flee. I insisted that I had paid for my seat, and I was going to use it. Even if it did irreparable harm to my taste and intelligence. 

I maintain this edict today, but I cannot say that it is equally enforced in my own living room. This past week, my wife and I stumbled upon Tim Burton's Dark Shadows.  "Hey," she said, "we haven't seen this." Which was true, primarily because of all the voices that had warned us against making such a sacrifice of our time and energy. And yet, there we sat, couchbound, waiting for something to catch our interest or attach us to our long-standing affection for Tim Burton. 

Finally, I succumbed. I got up from my seat and went to the kitchen. "Do you want me to pause it?" asked my dutiful wife. I answered "no," but I kept the part about how I couldn't imagine how it would help anyone by making it last any longer than it already had. Eventually returning to my spot on the couch, I tried again to engage in what was taking place on the screen. Surely there must be something.

Nope. Not for me. When it was over, I watched the credits roll. I was grateful that as soon as they were over that Mister Burton hadn't seen fit to attach one more ounce of whimsy onto this hour and fifty-three minute monsterpiece. I had seven minutes of that two hour block to attempt to cleanse my mind of the time spent waiting for something to happen. 

So, for the record, I walked out of Dark Shadows, but I came crawling back. My apologies for those of you who happen to hold any of these films in high regard. But I did make it all the way through. That's got to be worth something.