The Drink : A full growler of dark, slightly under-carbonated, home brewed beer. And about 6 shots of some cheap tequila purchased in Minneapolis.
It was a cold, damp weekend in Elk River, MN. Trivial Pursuit had been played and Boggle had been unscrambled to death. The soundtrack to Love Story spun lopsided on the turntable, skipping around between moody piano and needle scratches sounding like a syrupy hiccup until I was nausious, much like watching the movie itself, but that's a review for another time.
I suggested we hit up the Redbox. Now, for some still unexplained reason, my gracious hosts were profoundly opposed to Redbox. I argued its virtues for nearly an hour, getting nowhere until I simply picked a movie and reserved it online, forcing them to choose between the age old dilemma of watching movies on a boring rainy day or losing a dollar. We drove to Redbox, although in hindsight, I really wish they would have stuck to their guns and stood up for their beliefs.
There is really very little good I can say about War Horse, except for that it's the first movie I have seen where I think the main animal character is a pompous ass hole. Congo came close, but really, if the scientist would have just deactivated that electronic translator the ape would just have been doing regular sign language.
Right off the bat, the kid that takes a liking to the horse annoyed me. I'm assuming he came straight from failed casting of Wizards of Waverly Place and walked next door to the War Horse set. Yes, I'm saying he looked like a Disney dork. Second, Disney dork calls the horse Joey. Watch Black Beauty or Seabiscuit and in your mind, name those horses Joey and tell me you still like those movies.
The fact that the horse apparently listens to Disney dork and understands English and agrees to plow a huge field out of the kindness of its horse heart does not help its case. Anyone who has ever been thrown from a horse, kicked by a horse, shat on by a horse, had a horse fart in your face, know that horses just don't give a s**t.
My gracious hosts usually have a rule about ABSOLUTELY NO TALKING during a movie, a rule I feel I should point out to them only applies in the theater, and that I can't bloody well tell other people in the theater to shut up and watch movies at home if they're going to talk if people aren't actually allowed to talk during movies at home. However, during the scene where the farm's entire turnip crop is ruined by...wait for it...rain, we could keep silent no longer. The farmwife pulls up big beautiful turnips and throws them to the nicely moistened ground bemoaning her fate and we go to pieces, pouring more out of the growler, popping popcorn, and other usual protests.
The rest of the movie just goes on and on with ridiculous horsness that is too painful to relate, like a time you were super embarrassed that you just want to forget. Somewhere along the way someone said " Didn't Steven Spielberg direct this movie?"
"No, he just produced it," said another. I slipped out my smartphone, furiously typing into IMDB, fingers crossed, praying " Produced! Produced!"
Nope. Directed. I couldn't believe it. Not that I think Spielberg is the greatest director of all time or anything ( a title I reserve for Christopher Nolan) but still, doesn't he have people to tell him his movie sucks?
When it was over we sat there, wanting our dollar back. The gracious host's wife sighed contentedly. " I like it." she said. I wasn't surprised. I know that girls like quirky horses and square jawed, blue eyed Disney dorks. I just didn't know Spielberg did.
