Bridget Jones is A Man...and I am Her

Movie in My Mind

I love movies—the usage of “love” is an understatement, mind you. I mean if movies were people, I would’ve fucked them. (There you go! My first blog and it’s Larry Flynt-slash-ChiChi La Rue by the end of the second sentence with the profanity.) Movies, like books, just provide me with the proverbial “escape” which is a good thing. It’s voyeuristic to a certain extent because you get to peep in the lives of characters “created” by writers—note the quotes because I’m sure these writers surely lurk in the bushes with their laptops, eavesdropping like vultures on people’s conversations and typing every word these poor people say…VERBATIM. (Oh, wait. That’s me…*guiltily bites finger*) Attending the Eiga Sai 2004 opened my doors to Asian films. Last Saturday, I was a film fest virgin. On Sunday, I was officially a film fest slut who wants more…

Last Sunday, however, I had to leave TWILIGHT SAMURAI due to the inconsiderate “requests” of my boss. After accomplishing her Hitler-esque demands, I decided to buy coffee at Figaro and sit outside by the umbrellas and smoke while waiting for the next movie, HUSH. Very Paris—sitting at a café, cigarette at hand, savoring life, and watching a different kind of “movie”. Kids playing luksong tinik and having a great time. Teenagers struggling to be badminton players using 60-peso rackets and a plastic shuttlecock. Four men playing park volleyball who seem to have forgotten that they were in a park and not the beach when one of the guys executed a killer spike and hit the wannabee, pseudo-Paris Hilton girl seated with her equally clueless friends at the table next to mine. It was like a Jess Abrera “Pinoy Nga” cartoon in motion. What caught my attention though was a man and a woman cuddling under a tree on a makeshift picnic blanket made from rice sacks sewn together. I decided to switch to writer mode, lit another cigarette, and like Carrie Bradshaw—sans laptop, sans sexy curls, sans female reproductive system—I let the silent movie play before me. From where I’m sitting, they seem to be celebrating 8 years of their marriage. Why not think, “Damn, they’re celebrating 8 years of cheating on their spouses”? I’m a Charlotte York—(takes on a bitchy-sistah-from-Brooklyn stance) so sue me. From how they nuzzle each other’s noses and how their eyes light up with each exchange of what seem to be sweet nothings, this silent movie is definitely one of romantic proportions. (cue instrumental score: From Funny Girl, “People”. This is gonna tip the Gay-dar waaaaaaayyyy far. Hahaha!) The way the man’s forefinger traces the contours of his wife’s nose. How the woman playfully tries to bite her husband’s forefinger like a willing prey who wants to take the bait. The way they seem to not let each other finish each other’s sentences by giving the other a kiss and end the endearing repartee of verbal and unspoken affection with a tight hug. All I can do is marvel at the majesty of love in action—and for some reason, I was happy for two people whom I don’t even know. Although, I have to say that there is this undeniable pang of jealousy and envy of what they have. Eventhough I didn't notice that I almost got burned by my now almost extinguished nicotine source, I know that this silent movie will play in my mind for as long as it could, bringing me hope that someday, I too would have my own silent movie that would make people hope for a happy ending of their own. (cue sound effect: record scratch) Oh, crap! All I know is that, my movie is still in the making. And in the context of the silent movie that I just watched, I definitely need to cast my love interest REAL QUICK…production cost is blowing waaaaayyy out of proportion. What can I say? This is what I get for wanting a fuckin’ romantic movie. I should’ve taken the advice of my friend and just settled for a hot, sweaty porn flick—low production cost and maximum satisfaction. (Just borrow a digicam, meet up with someone, fuck each other’s brains out while holding the camera, boom! Movie.)

Now, given the emotional and financial economics of making your own romantic movie, it made me think: Should we still aim for something like “An Affair to Remember” or just settle with its counterpart, Ron Jeremy’s or Sean Cody’s Production (depending on which way you swing) of “A Fuck To Remember”?

posted by Being Jerome Daclison @ 5:36 AM