Ransacked in Rome

My wife and I have a free afternoon and decide to spend it at the movies. Our viewing choice is between Ted and Woody Allen’s new film, To Rome with Love, and because I like Woody and my wife likes Judy Davis, the Woodman wins our 15 bucks.

We arrive early, find seats, unpack contraband from Starbucks we have smuggled in -- chicken sandwich, iced coffee and a small bottle of Pellegrino. A predominately AARP audience arrives and settles in, and all is pleasant until First Look starts pimping new TV shows. CBS is launching some drama called Elementary, in which a modern day Sherlock Holmes, boasting tats and hip patter, solves crimes in New York City with his sidekick, Dr. Watson, a woman in this incarnation, played by Lucy Liu. Yawn.

I ask my wife if every second of contemporary American life must be filled with advertising.

“Wherever a captive audience can be found,” she says, “there will be ads. The moments before the previews roll is a prime advertising opportunity.”

“But nobody is paying the slightest attention,” I say. “Look around. What are people doing? Fiddling with cell phones, chomping popcorn and junior mints, staring into space.”

“Subliminal,” says my wife, tucking into her half of the chicken sandwich. “The messages work on a subconscious level. We’re being indoctrinated right now.”

“Silence has been totally devalued. Can I have the trail mix, please?”

“What trail mix? I didn’t bring any trail mix.”

“I put a bag in your purse before we left the house.”

First Look was now recapping the shows the audience had just ignored.

“You ransacked my purse?”

“Who said anything about ransacked? I simply opened your purse and dropped a bag of trail mix inside. That hardly qualifies as ransacking.”

My wife turns in her seat to look at me.

“You violated the sanctity of my purse, the one place where I have any privacy. Do I ever ransack your wallet? No, of course not. I respect your right to privacy even though you don’t reciprocate. You’re as bad as our children.”

“May I have the trail mix, please?”

“Not until you acknowledge my point,” says my wife, “and promise to respect the sanctity of the purse from this day forward.”

“OK, got it, though I think you’re taking this too far. I didn’t look through your purse -- I only put something in it that is too bulky to fit in my pocket. Now, if you will kindly hand over the trail mix, we can enjoy the movie.”

“Acknowledge my point.”

“I just did.”

“Not even close. Tell me what I need to hear and mean it.”

Beaten, I acquiesce, even though I still think she’s making an issue out of nothing. No point in waging a protracted battle now – I want to enjoy the movie and my trail mix.

Reaching in her purse, feeling around as if the thing were bottomless -- past wallet, cell phone, makeup pouch, checkbook, Kleenex, gum, key ring, pencil, pen, highlighter, miniature flashlight, hand sanitizer, lipstick, hand lotion – until she locates the bag of trail mix and shakes her head with obvious disappointment.

“You didn’t transfer it to a Ziploc bag.”

“I was in a hurry.”

“No trail mix for you. Opening this bag in a theatre would be like setting off a bomb in a closet.”

“Half the people here are partially deaf. They’ll never know.”

“They will. And they will hate us. We’ll be bombarded with hate vibes.”

“Who cares? Please, hand the trail mix over.”

The previews are about to start, the lights dim; a woman in the row behind us clears her throat with unrestrained gusto, as if she is sitting alone in her living room. Late arriving patrons stand in the aisle looking for seats. “Are those three taken?” “Is anyone sitting there?” Why people show up late and expect to find good seats is a mystery to me. Now the latecomers are climbing over people, imposing on them to move their legs, their shopping bags, canes, muttering, “excuse me, sorry, pardon me,” making a nuisance of themselves as the first preview rolls. I’m thinking of almonds and peanuts – natural and honey roasted – prisoners in my wife’s fortress purse; they call to me, but I am powerless to liberate them.

To Rome with Love isn’t as entertaining Woody’s last film, Midnight in Paris, and a half-hour in I’m bored and thinking we should have opted for Ted, the foul-mouthed talking teddy bear. The woman in the row behind us obviously agrees, for she is asleep, head cocked to one side, mouth open. The sight of Woody Allen on the screen doesn’t make me laugh, and the dialogue doesn’t sparkle. What happened, Woody?

My wife must be having the same thoughts. Dropping the bag of trail mix in my lap she says, “Knock yourself out.”