As I get older, I appear to be getting wimpier.
When I believed, in that context, that I had already hit the
bottom of the barrel.
I have written before about my inordinately low threshold
for tolerating disturbing movies. I have
mentioned watching The Godfather (1972) and, knowing where the upsetting parts
are (having previously read the book), retreating into the lobby every time the
“build-up” music intoned, “Here comes another one!” Being a movie critic on a local Canadian TV
program at the time, this liability caused me considerable trouble reviewing
the entirety of the picture. Though I
was surprisingly articulate about the rotating hot dogs at the concession stand.
I have also mentioned, earlier in my life, badgering my
older brother into taking me to the newly released 3-D horror sensation The
House of Wax, (the 1953 version), only to pull an abrupt one-eighty when we
got there, refusing, despite arguments and threats, to set foot into the
theater. I remained outside for two
hours until my brother finally emerged to shuttle me home. (I at least partially blame my brother for this debacle. On the bus ride to the theater, he and his buddies
got me so worked up about how scary it was going to be, it precipitated a
preemptive panic attack.)
Indian pictures scared me, especially when the drums stopped,
because everyone knows, “When the drums stop, they attack!” Murder mysteries were also out. The film directors employed this strategy of
keeping the screen darkly lit (for some reason, not an oxymoron), requiring
moviegoers to focus more closely on the events that I, in particular, did not
want to see. War pictures…come on, you
form an attachment to some platoon member, and they shoot him in the head.
In those days, I was unable to attend anything where they
wore uniforms unless those uniforms were inhabited by Martin and Lewis or
Abbott and Costello. Or Donald O’Connor
(and his hilarious talking mule.) (“In
those days.” Like I have ever seen Saving Private Ryan.)
As the years went by, as a result of loosening standards
concerning content acceptability, advancing technology allowing moviemakers to
depict violence more graphically on the screen, as well a financial imperative
to go progressively “further” with each film, for me, more and more movies
became less and less acceptable. This
past year, as I have mentioned, was an exception. Numerous Oscar
contenders are almost entirely “jolt-free.”
But in the past…
There Will Be Blood speaks
for itself. No Country For Old Men – I wondered “Why not?” and did not bother
to find out.
But it’s not just disturbing entertainments I unilaterally
steer clear of. There are parts of real
life I assiduously avoid as well. (And I
am not talking about the dentist, though I easily could be, and probably will
at some future date.)
What I am currently giving a total pass to is the 2014 Winter Olympics.
Not because I fear a repeat of the “Munich Massacre” of
1972. (Though, with its precarious
locale, there have been rumblings in that direction.) My apprehensions are nowhere close to that
reasonable. Generally, the only blood
drawn at the Olympics is the
competitors’ accidentally pricking their fingers while exchanging commemorative
pins.
The thing is, my areas of avoidance have expanded beyond the
apprehension of violence to a desire to avoid upsetting situations as a
whole.
This aversion to emotional intensity has reared its head – and
I have written about it in the past – at the Summer Olympics as well. I
do not discriminate because it’s snow.
The only difference is that at the Summer
Olympics, my reservations are assuaged by the opportunity of watching the
participants competing in considerably less clothing. (“Look ashamed!” “I am thoroughly ashamed.”)
I cannot for a second watch
figure skating. What if they fall doing
a “Triple Axel”, or even a quadruple attempting to achieve “Gold” with their
audacious virtuosity, but instead achieving ignominious failure, the dashing of
their lifetime’s aspirations, and severe ice chips up the wazoo.
I cannot, or more accurately I can no longer because I believe I once could – handle that level of generated
emotion. (It was agonizing, but I
watched. And now I can’t.)
I harken back to recollections of the “horse jumping” at the
Summer Olympics, which I can also not tolerate, because of that
reverberating clanking sound heard when the horse does not make it cleanly over
the jump, its hind-leg hoofs knocking the stick heartbreakingly to the ground. It is simply too much. All that effort. All that expectation. How horribly devastated they must feel – the
rider and the horse.
And for some reason, I identify.
As bizarre as I always was
in this regard, things seem to be getting worse. Back then, I would look away from the intense moments at the Olympics. Now, I refuse to even
tune in. (And it’s not just the
participants. Announcer Bob Costas had
to bow out because of an eye injury. The
guy’s been waiting for this for four
years!)
Explanations are elusive, at least the definitive ones. I can make up an exclamation, and if it’s persuasive enough, I can convince
myself it’s “Case closed.” But
sometimes, that’s just me, wanting to put the issue to bed and proceed on to
something else I will probably get wrong.
The following is my provisional rationale for why I appear to have
become wimpier.
Heart surgery.
I recall, a week or so before I went in for my valve repair,
deciding to distract myself with a visit to the latest edition of Cirque Du Soleil. I had attended a number of their earlier
offerings, and had thoroughly enjoyed myself.
This time, however, it was different.
On that pre-surgical occasion, the acts of enthralling derring-do
surprisingly derringly-didn’t. Instead,
their risk-taking “Feats of Wonder” upset me so much, it took all I had to keep
me from bolting out of the Big Top.
There is a mortality issue involved. And that’s as best as I can explain it.
What I know is, due to who I’ve become, and the effect that certain
external stimuli have on me,
I have watched my last “Ice Dancing.”
Though I can still – just barely – watch curling.
3 comments:
I have a friend who similarly cannot watch any movies or TV shows with any level of violence in them. She puts it down to not watching much TV as a child and never getting used to the idea that the actor who died on Law & Disorder this week will get up, dust himself off, and die next week on some other show.
To reinforce your inability to watch the Olympics, I will just mention that last Winter Olympics one of the athletes actually did get killed in a practice run, I think on the luge, because the course had design errors that made it possible for him to collide with a steel pole. It came out later, that the organizers had been warned that the track was dangerously fast and there had even been other accidents in training runs, but they had chosen to do nothing, presumably because they wanted world records to be set there. After the death, they did alter the track to make it safer, but that was the end of my already low interest level in anything run by the IOC.
Fortunately, tennis, which is the one sport I actually follow, is played year-round and is basically safe.
wg
Watched All is Lost last night. Amazing job by Redford, but I guess today's blog means you can't watch it. Unless it's a lot of hyper-hyperbole...& I hope it is.
I haven't been able to enjoy anything but the lightest of entertainment since my father died right after I graduated college. And not only do I avoid reading articles about horrible things in reality, I don't read anything that's emotion-tugging even in a good way.
But you may want to consider watching the Olympic coverage with the sound off. That way, you won't know what's at stake with each performance.
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