Just A Day Off This Year, or Sniff Munch Munch Slurp

My attempts at quickie public service on MLK days past were pretty sorry, so this year I just went to the movies with my aunt. What's worse, to please her, we sat in the back of the theater, and she'd grown up during segregation.

We did see Hotel Rwanda, which was better than I expected. Of course, I knew Mr. Cheadle would be excellent as always. But that Sophie Okonedo stole the show.

Hotel Rwanda is in that genre of movies I call the I-Should-See-That, as in "I should see that, but I'm just not in the mood."

Even during an I-Should-See-That, I hate to cry at films. I always feel like a sucker, especially if it's a feature narrative movie movie. At moments inHotel Rwanda, I felt a strange combination of guilt and "bamboozeledness." The children's faces, the rain, the music all conspired. They pushed my buttons like a lounge singer playing a casio. I sat there with my popcorn and drink going "(sniff) What will happen to those orphans?(Munch munch slurp)"

However, since it is the right and privilege for Entertainment and Art to take elements of actual events and make them personal, I won't berate myself for too much for crying at a movie with Hollywood stars, while not so much as sniffing at the plight of regular folks in the news, documentary, editorial or even agit prop. Non-fiction sends my guard up. "Based on a True Story" doesn't so much. But does that make Entertainment and Art more insidious?

Enough of my literal-mindedness! What matters are actions outside of the cinema! I'll do a real service this week! Munch munch slurp!