Even in these hard-as-nails days of commitment phobia, all of us denizens who inhabit Sin Cities still have a little bit of Hans Christian Anderson or Brothers Grimm or Charles Perrault (the guy widely credited with writing the schmaltzy Sleeping Beauty) in us. We still believe in happy endings. And happily ever after, is piece de resistance.
Which is probably why when we women hear of a ‘happy endings’ movie called Made of Honor (what is it with the spelling?), we cannot wait to go watch it. Catch it at a cinema-hall next to you, implore the posters: how can you not? More so, when it’s Patrick Dempsey (anybody who doesn’t know who — or what — he is, may please watch Grey’s Anatomy on Star World, when the clock strikes nine tonight) presiding over the honours?
I invited Tiger to watch Made of Honor with me. “What kind of a movie is it?” he asked suspiciously. “It’s not a chick flick I hope?”
“How could you even think I’d take you to see a chick flick?” It’s a political-espionage thriller, where the establishment proves to the citizens of its country that it’s Made of Honour, I told him with a straight face. He bought my lie.
Two things happened at the movies that I thought were worth noting. One was the amount of time spent on getting frisked. I almost missed the beginning of Made of Honor; heck, come to think of it, I actually did miss the first five minutes (which is why I want to watch it again). Later, I was to discover that though the security woman rifled through my Made-in-Thailand (and therefore, dirt cheap) bag for a full seven minutes or so, she totally missed a hideous yellow cigarette lighter and a matchbox. I could have chosen to be a conflagration-ist anywhere within the premises.
“I hate being felt up,” Tiger complained, once we were through with our respective frisking. “By men,” he added, ever so quietly. (I remembered how one of my other single male friends had griped bitterly about getting a male masseur. “I CAN’T TAKE IT WHEN MEN TOUCH ME,” he had screamed into his steaming bowl of sambhar sitting in Saravana Bhavan, much to the consternation of the waiters.)
The second thing that happened got Tiger’s goat more than it did mine. The row in front of us contained a laptop-bag-toting chappie, I observed minutes after being seated. During halftime –– while Tiger was wondering loudly why the espionage bit had not quite begun, and why everyone was only talking about bridal showers and maids of honour –– this gent got up, placed his black bag carefully on his seat, and went for a walk.
“Listen, there’s something terribly strange going on here,” Tiger’s voice dipped in a flash. “This guy has left a bag in a public area and disappeared –– do you know what that means?”
“Let’s get out,” Tiger barked. “Now.”
“But listen,” I said breathlessly as I ran alongside him, “I want to finish watching the movie… I believe in happy endings.”
There may only be The End, he said sternly, so let’s play it by the ear.
The plot was resembling an espionage thriller all right.
We went and hung out near the food area. The bag owner was also there. We kept an eagle eye on him as he floated all over the place. Then, he waltzed back into the theatre. We followed lamely.
After the movie ended –– and yes, there was a very happy ending –– we bumped into the bag-owner downstairs, next to the car park. This time, he was leaning against a street lamp, looking at the night sky.
“He’s not dangerous, he’s just a little unhinged,” I sighed.
“He probably believes in happy endings too,” growled Tiger.