Yesterday I went to see The Proposal. I had not desire to see it when it first came out. What can I say? I'm a fan of Ryan Reynolds but not of his co-star. Where had the Sandra Bullock gone that once had me envious of her kissing Jack Traven? Where had the Sandy gone from While You Were Sleeping? She went to the land of Miss Congeniality 2 and a slew of other tired formulaic films that did nothing for us, but certainly did much for her bank account. And I'm not going to lie, I thought it was a bit cheap that her husband Jesse James never did get a donation from her for The Celebrity Apprentice. Sure, is Donald Trump bad television, if not even a worse stereotype of New York sleaze and infidelity? Yep. But donating to charity, no matter through which means, is a bad thing. I digress.
I saw that larger than life poster of the two of them and was disgusted by her. "That's not Sandra Bullock," I said to myself. "She's not that thin." Apparently she is... I went to the film after friends told me it wasn't a normal Sandra Bullock romantic comedy (read mediocre). So, I went and gave over to breaking the funk that I'm in with a lighthearted movie.
I did enjoy the film. It wasn't the typical Sandra Bullock romantic comedy (read mediocre). It did have something there. But I hate to tell S.B. that she was the weakest part of the film. She was a caricature of herself, her film-self that we've come to expect, the commodity that she is. Ryan Reynolds and Betty White... who could ask for anything more? Sincere, funny, worth every minute.
As I sat in that darkened room, directed toward the gorgeous New England scenery (because this is Hollywood after all, not Sitka, Alaska) I was struck by my lot, or what appears to be my lot in life. As Drew Paxton comes back for Margaret Tate I was telling myself, "That would never happen. THAT WOULD NEVER HAPPEN!" A man would never come back to tell a crowded room that he loves the woman before him. This is the bullshit that Hollywood has been selling for 100 years and the fantasy fiction we've been dining on and ruminating on for just as long. Men are not good creatures. They don't care about themselves, let alone anyone else, to put hubris aside for love. Men are awful beings.
And yet, I want them to be Drew Paxton. I want them to yell at the woman they love, to listen to them, to hear their plea of love. I want them to so fucking badly.
In the middle of these swirling contradictions I heard the song "But Not For Me." By Ira and George Gershwin, the song was first written for the musical Girl Crazy in 1930. It's been sung by music's best. But depending on the version, you can either be ebullient or forlorn. Dinah Washington's swing version belies the pain that Rosemary Clooney's version, all too effectively, highlights. As I watched Drew and Margaret (Ryan and Sandy) kiss I knew that they write songs, books, and films for everyone else but me. "They're writing songs of love,/But not for me;/A lucky star's above,/But not for me. With Love to Lead the Way,/I've found more skies of Gray/Than any Russian play/Could Guarantee," wrote those brothers. Indeed, they are writing songs and movies of love but not for me.
Noone writes a song or movie of love about the big girl. Big girl is, of course, a euphemism for fat. We don't like fat folks. We really don't. And we especially hate the fat girl. She doesn't fit into our society's stereotyped performance of gender. How can I be cute if my ass is too big? How can I transfix a man into a mediated-kerfuffle that would lead him to do such an unmanly thing as profess his love in public when I wear clothes in double digit numbers? I can't. Never have. Never will. I realized yesterday just how alone I am, and will always be. Yes, the evil shrew that was Margaret Tate's character for the first hour of the film is more desirable than me. She may be a bitch, but she's thin. Learn the lesson-- Thin Wins. Always.
I knew I shouldn't have gone to that fucking movie.
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