I had a moment like that a couple of weekends ago.
You know this year marks the 50th anniversary of the movie, West Side Story, right? Well, it does. I remember seeing it when I was a kid. I loved it! The music, the dancing, the sweet, sweet story of star-crossed lovers…
I even sang There’s a Place for Us for a high school musical audition. I sang it badly, mind you, but my willingness to be humiliated in front of a room full of 15-18-year-olds is testament to how much I loved that song.
So, naturally, I wanted my daughter, who loves theater and musicals, to see this amazing, wonderful piece of cinema… I wanted to enrich her childhood, as mine had been enriched.
What the hell was I thinking?!
It was terrible. Really, really terrible.
First of all, it was about an hour too long. The acting was atrocious. The make-up, appalling. Some of the singing and dancing was good, but some, not so much. And the story? Good lord. How did I not remember how cheesy and ridiculous it was? And that it took place in 24 hours (which is how long the movie felt)?
I was reminded, however, the first time Tony told Maria he loved her, ten minutes after they met. My nearly-thirteen-year-old hollered at the screen (the first of several times), “You don’t even know each other! Stop it!”
She’s got some sense, that one does.
And I guarantee she won’t be showing West Side Story to her kid on its 80th anniversary.
We'd have rather watched the cats.