Sweet Jane

“Do you realize that The Jane Austen Book Club grossed only $3.5 million? That wouldn’t even cover the advertising in New York for a week.”

    Jacques looked surprised. “Since when did you start checking out box office figures?”

    “I know, I know,” I said apologetically. “It’s tacky. When there was all that commotion about Cloverfield being a hit, making $40 million on opening weekend, I wondered if it was because it was a hit or because the lemmings merely fell for an effective ad campaign. It was the latter, of course. The movie made about $4 million in its third week. I compared it to The Blair Witch Project, whose box office went up about $20 million every week for about six weeks. To me, that’s a hit.”

    “At this point it seems clear,” he paused for dramatic effect while stirring his tea, “that the theater is merely a promotional tool to bolster DVD sales. Most of the movies that are up for Best Picture this year barely played outside of urban markets. I think the Oscar nominations are there to increase DVD sales, too.”

    “A conspiracy?”

    “No doubt. The moneymen are always in charge. Now what’s this about The Jane Austen Book Club? Any good?”

    “I liked it. Imagine an American mainstream movie in 2007 about reading. Actually, it was more about passion, which is why I liked it. I’m sure the cynics would find fault with it, but they’re a bunch of assholes and, quite frankly, at this stage of the game, I don’t think anyone knows what the fuck they’re talking about anyway.”

    “Now who’s cynical?” He raised his eyebrow and reminded me of Ian McKellen.

    “Fuck you. Pass the sugar.”

    “Still, I’m surprised it didn’t hit as a chick flick. Rather un-PC of me, I know, but the whole Jane Austen thing and all…”

    “It had a lot going against it as a chick flick. No easy romance or sex, no life-threatening diseases, no hot leads — or, rather, no hot young leads. Maria Bello is damn near perfect.”

    “She’s, what? Forty? A mere child…”

    “Yeah, but, well, close to my ideal.” He saw that I was shrinking into my coffee cup.

    “Oh, yes, your distant, shall we say, obsession? Well, we shan’t get into that now, will we? Trust me: that little secret of yours is safe with me.”

    “Thank you.”

    “So you identified with the passion in the film?”

    “Yeah, the passion for art, for reading, and women. I’ve always preferred the company of women. For the most part, men bore me. Present company excluded, I assure you.”

    He chuckled. “I read that recent piece you wrote. What was it? ‘There should be a thesis written about the gobs of testosterone clogging the internet?’ Quite amusing, and rather ballsy on your part.”

    “Why? No one reads this shit.”

    “Aw, poor baby,” he feigned fatherly. I hated when he did that. “I guess I should check the movie out.”

    “If you want. But, please, if you think it’s hokey or bland or anything, don’t tell me. It’s one of those movies I have in that special personal section in my mind. Or heart. Like The Bridges of Madison County. Shit, that thing turned me into a bowl of jelly.”

    “Are you quite sure you haven’t got a vagina?”