Serious art film

Lee and I put on our pink shirts and went to see Barbie last night. We went to the closest theater, the Bridgeway, which does a mix of Hollywood blockbusters and artsy film festival fare.

And even last night, as the queue for Barbie lengthened out the door, a young woman sat somewhat forlornly at a table set up for will-call tickets to the International Film Festival. Her eyes flicked over our rosy attire and I think she didn’t see us again.

One thing I’m snobby about is education and a certain cultural tone that goes with it… I think people should do — and enjoy — learned things, and especially I feel I should do and enjoy those things. One should lift one’s nose just a bit, and choose The Atlantic over Cosmopolitan. And whatever the film equivalent of that analogy (I think that might even be an example of synecdoche, but I’ll let you decide) might be.

So Barbie? No way. At least when I go to Marvel comics movies I’m tapping into my own boyhood memories… but neither of us has any known affinity for the doll.

But we went because everyone else is and because the smart reviewers we listen to gave us permission… And here’s the thing: it was a really really good movie. I was moved to tears multiple times, even as I catalogued the clichés. Like a few other of the best directors in their various genres of film, Greta Gerwig seems to have just nailed this one. Because she got me and Lee, but she also got the four VERY sparkly 9-year-olds next to us whose moms brought them. And, as far as I could tell, everyone else.