There are often details that jerk me right out of an otherwise satisfactory movie or television experience. Sweet Tooth, a post-apocalyptic show on Netflix, for example. I had no issue with the idea that there was a virus that wiped out civilization and all the babies born from then on out had animal characteristics…horns and wings, etc. HOWEVER, the show lost believability because the kid, living in the wilderness with his dad for the past 10 years, had clothes that fit him. These garments were not made from animal skins or woven fibers. He had jeans. He had shoes. He had a spiffy new flannel shirt that looked like it came out of a box from LL Bean that very morning. How could that happen, huh? I stopped watching the show for that reason.
Another thing: movie toothbrushing. No foam. People can walk and talk for half an hour while brushing their teeth. Me, I look like a rabid dog after thirty seconds, as is recommended by the American Dental Association. But in the movies, there is no foaming, no trail of blueish spit down’s one chin, dripping onto the floor. “She’s not using toothpaste,” I might whisper to McIrish. “Irritating.” He ignores me and continues shoveling popcorn into his mouth.
Running. In the movies, people can run really, really far. And in real life, that can also be true (I hear). But there’s no gasping in the movies after the hero/heroine sprints six or seven miles. They’re slightly out of breath, perhaps dewy with a glaze of sweat, and recover in seconds. Listen. I watched 9 years of cross country meets. Where is the puking, the collapsing to the ground, the all-out sobbing that often accompanies running as fast as you possibly can for distances further than God meant you to, huh? I used to run. My face would stay red for hours afterward. Hours.
Foreplay. Two kisses, someone is picked up, and it’s multiple orgasm time. Also, her bra stays on. Please. I’d like to see a couple who’s a bit more invested, thank you very much. Take a little time, people. Show you mean it.
Fighting. Despite our hero/heroine having all manner of weaponry skills, it all comes down to a slug fest. For the record, a skilled fighter can take someone out in one punch to the throat. Not being able to breathe tends to end a fight. This never happens in the movies. For two, these movie people can be punched repeatedly in the face, ribs, chest, kidneys, throat (see above) but they shake it off, ignore the knife /gun/ boxcutter/ spear/ crossbow/ lightsaber next to them and punch that villain for ten more minutes, by which time I’ve gone downstairs, gotten myself some ice cream, added rainbow shots, come back upstairs, and still the fight is raging. Yawn.
Rage-birthing babies. Many women have shared their birth stories with me because that’s what we mothers do when we get together. War stories. No one has ever mentioned screaming at top volume during labor. Why? Because we’re busy putting all our energy into pushing a human out of a very small orifice. There is no energy left over for screaming, cursing and punching spouses. Sure, we make noise. Just not screams of rage.
Hollywood, if you would like me to consult, I’m completely available.