So the other day, I’m sitting in the movie theater with my popcorn bucket in my lap and my feet on the head of the person in front of me, ready to get my Burlesque on. “Take me away, Cher,” I mumbled as the lights went down.
Within one minute of the opening credits, Christina Aguilera, portraying a waitress in a dive bar in a small podunk town, delivered her first line, intended to sum up the entire plot of the movie: “I’m getting out of here, Rita.”
Perfect. Point made. This film is about Christina leaving Idaho or wherever and going to Hollywood to become a burlesque star. I know all I need to know, because let’s be honest — I’m not here for the plot. I’m here for the dance porn.
Well. Apparently, that line wasn’t quite as fine with everyone else as it was with me, because no sooner did she utter this perfectly apt sentence and I began to sink deeply into the psychedelic depths of movie-musical oblivion, then my ears were assaulted by the utmost of theater abominations: a laugh, from a man a few seats down.
Not a kindly laugh, mind you — a scoff, and a loud one at that. These donkey-brays continued to explode from his mouth at every unbelievable turn the story took. And there were many, because it was a musical.
After suffering through this ignoramus’ obscene (Yes. Obscene.) outbursts, I finally had the chance to tell him how I felt with my eyes as we exited the theater, and that’s when I found out that that he was there with a woman (you stupid cow). A woman who, I imagine, dragged him to see it, and should have known better.
It’s possible that other men wouldn’t have reacted the same way that this disrespectful uncultured douchebag did. But for the record, most women don’t bring their straight male partners to movies like this for a reason: not only will those men not enjoy the film, but they will ruin it for the rest of us.
Listen — we know that our chick flicks and our musical movies and anything involving multiple break-outs into choreographed dance numbers aren’t going to be contenders for Best Picture. We know that Tisch film students would scoff through their ironic facial hair over the way these films butcher the Fine Art of Moviemaking. We know that SATC2 wasn’t the second coming of Citizen Kane.
But we don’t care.
Not to beat the porn horse to death, but for the same reason that you gentlemen like to pretend that one day you might come home and our best friend will be jumping up and down naked on a trampouline and land on your dick, we like to pretend that one day we might discover an underground hideaway where women dance in fishnets and drink whiskey and the glamorous dreams of small-town girls come true.
So fuck you.
And now, ladies — this is a call to action. Have some respect for yourself, for us, and for the sanctity of the chick flick. Leave your man at home. You might think you’re cute for getting choked up when the star-crossed lovers finally meet, and maybe you’re hoping that your boyfriend will too. Or, perhaps your strategy is to give his hand knowing squeezes during the engagement scene, putting extra pressure down with your notably un-bejeweled ring finger.
But I implore you: resist these urges. If it makes it any easier, my guess is that he will not think that you — or any of us — are as cute as you think we all are. Some things should stay among women — and what we do in the darkness of a movie theater while watching chick flicks is one of them.