His: The Immortals – Gods and Titans in a CGI special-effects extravaganza, heads sliced right off, chopping, murdering, swords, arrows, blood and severed body parts in 3D (I can just imagine people in the theater ducking out of the way of incoming parts and blood splatter), Mickey Rourke, good versus evil.
Hers: The Princess Bride – a Quote-Along (like a sing-along except it’s not a musical), with blow-up swords, “Hello, My name is Inigo Montoya” name tags, an ROUS rustling through the aisles during the fire swamp scene, camp, humor, true love (“twue wuv”), Peter Falk, good versus evil.
Good wins, in both.
When we met up afterward, we eagerly shared our experiences. Not having to sit through the other’s movie, we were able to grant cinematic value to a film that otherwise might have filled us with dread, boredom, or even scorn. My husband’s eyes were bright and his smile wide as I pranced around describing my show, repeating lines, wielding my inflatable sword and challenging him to a duel. I enthusiastically learned about the bloody battles and special effects and Rourke’s particular gift for playing evil, saddened that his movie wasn’t as great as he’d hoped it would be.
If our local indie theater ever does a Rocky Quote-Along, I have no doubt my husband would be in the audience, with blow-up boxing gloves and water bottles and whatever else the theater thought would add to the fun of watching a beloved, over-seen movie just one more time, in the presence of what can only be called, “your people.” Sylvester Stallone ignites every neuron in my husband’s system, and he would sit joyously in the audience, amidst an overload of hormonal, neurotransmitter and excitatory systems firing at once.
Whereas for me, Rob Reiner can excite every neuron in my system. I laugh, I cry, I get mad at characters, I want true love to win, I am at one with his quirky intellectual humor, and have been since a good friend and I were the only two people left in a Midwestern movie theater in 1984, laughing so hard we were at times fully out of our chairs, the first two people ever in that part of the country to understand all the jokes in This Is Spınal Tap. Everyone else (of the dozen or so people who thought they’d try an unknown movie from an unknown director) got up and left in dismay or disgust.
Marriage ought to be full of this kind of “his and her” moments – chances for each partner to be with his or her “own” tribe, which, in that moment, doesn’t include the other, fully enjoying an experience without any fear that the other won’t quite like it the same way, won’t get it, will think worse of them for dragging them along. This is a kind of “his and her” that allows some separateness – unlike his-and-her matching windbreakers, key chains, mugs, pajamas, motorcycle gear, even tattoos – which then sets the stage for coming back together, fuller and more complete for having been temporarily apart.
In our separate movie theaters yesterday, my husband and I were contented, happy and free to indulge in the full excitation of mind, body and emotions that our different filmmakers planned for us. When we left the theaters and the tribes to which we had so perfectly belonged, we then rejoined the tiny little tribe of two that we make together. After having been charged up elsewhere, our minds, bodies and emotions were in sync, and our “us” made perfect sense. Grateful to be reunited, we then went off for our evening out. Just us.