It is generally dissatisfying to see a familiar tale brought to life on the big screen. The magic of fiction reading lies in the creation of our own storyboards. Imagining what characters look and sound like. And how they say words or names. I always feel, no matter how great the previews make it look, like I am, in some way, betraying those weathered pages I so enjoyed turning.
I've seen four movies in the theater since the birth of my first child almost three years ago. It's true what they say: you really don't go to the movies. Maybe it's just that, on the monumental occasion that we actually get a babysitter, we feel the need to sit across a table from one another and have a conversation that doesn't revolve around the bodily functions of those other than ourselves, and/or is not intermittently interrupted by the stern use of the word "no". But every once in a while (well, four times in the last three years) a movie comes along that we feel we cannot possibly live without seeing projected 2000% in a room full of strangers. Such an event happened a couple weeks ago in the form of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Now you may or may not know that Harry occupies a throne of honor in the Hall of Fame of My Heart. I have eagerly anticipated all six of the film adaptations, only to walk out of the cinema each time with my head hung and feet dragging, clutching my own original and now wounded mental images to my chest.
That being said, once again I planned (and re-planned) our date to see #6. I arranged to hand off our kids to some very kind (yet generally unsuspecting when it comes to my 3-year-old) friends. I bought our favorite candy and switched all of my things over to my big movie theater purse. I put on make-up and counted down the minutes until Rhett would get home from work and we could get on with the inevitable imagination slaughtering.
And then, there we were: sitting in our tiny home-town theater as the opening scene flashed and the music began to swell; I, waiting for the disappointment to roll over me, clinging to my Milk Duds. And you know what? It never happened. As if, by some kind of magical means, I was able to appreciate the movie as a separate and wonderful narrative. It was exciting. It was funny. It was aesthetically amazing and audibly inspiring. Walking to the car, my arms were free to happily dangle at my sides.
Apparently it took me six films to let go and trust that Jo (as the Brits and I call her) would never let anything bad happen to Harry.
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