Waiting for Gouda

Every once in a while, the Lovely Wife(TM) and I reserve a spot in the ol’ Netflix queue for a movie that we feel that we probably should see, not necessarily because we really want to see it, but rather because, you know… it’s supposed to be good.

Usually these are films that have been around for years or even decades and that fancy-pants critics and writers and directors like to reference in articles and interviews, and even if they don’t come right out and say it, you know that they would be a little embarrassed for you if they found out that you haven’t seen them.

Sometimes, they are critically acclaimed films by apparently important directors, as was the case with Scenes From a Marriage, which we tackled a couple weeks ago. This was actually pretty good, if you can stay awake through Mr. Bergman’s incredibly lengthy lack-of-reaction shots where an actor ponders something that was just said by staring off into space, or perhaps at a wall, for quite a long time, even if they were just asked if they liked the soup. Plus, all the furniture really looks like it came from IKEA, so I knew right away that these were scenes from an authentic Swedish marriage (which, by the way, if this film is any indication, aren’t really very happy… so, you know, don’t marry a Swede if you can help it).

Other times, these movies we find ourselves watching are well-known and seem vaguely important as you ponder their title, but for reasons you can’t quite recall, as if maybe somebody involved once got an award, or at least a hearty clap on the back. And so it was with Children of a Lesser God whose very title seems to suggest that it belongs in the realm of important movies you must see, but which is also never really explained… Who is this Lesser God? What makes he or she or it Lesser? And who are its children? The movie itself didn’t really have many children in it. Sure, there were a handful of teenagers, but I wouldn’t call them children, especially since several of them appeared to be in their early forties.

William Hurt of course also appeared to be in his forties (43 to be exact), but that’s because William Hurt has always looked that way, and always will. Someday, someone will study the biology of William Hurt and will make a fortune selling some cream or salve derived from his essence to people who, for whatever reason, want to always look like they are exactly 43 years old.

Marlee Maitlin did win awards for her portrayal of a deaf woman, although I think she had a bit of an unfair advantage, as she is actually deaf. I imagine that made it easier, as she did not have to pretend that she couldn’t hear Hurt’s incredibly 43-year-old-sounding voice droning on and on as he spoke aloud everything that was being signed between the two of them. Had a hearing woman been able to get through these scenes without screaming, I would have been more impressed.

If anyone deserved an award, it was Hurt, who somehow managed to pull off this feat, really a variation of the incredibly lame old TV convention where someone on the telephone repeats what is said to them word for word for the benefit of the audience. You know, something like:

“Hello, Johnson here. What’s that? Mr. Winkleman needs to see me? Right away, you say? Did he say what it’s about? No? Just that it’s urgent? I’ll come up right now. Don’t forget the hummus, you say? Okay.”

Well, Mr. Hurt had to do that for the entire movie, speaking the dialogue for both his character and her character. The whole damn time. And he almost made it work. He deserves at least an Honorable Mention in something.

Perhaps the worst thing about the movie was the soundtrack. It was Totally 80’s Casio, which is usually bad enough, but this particular score was created by someone who seemed incredibly fond of three or four particular keys on the keyboard. Just lay on them, long and hard. That’ll teach us non-deaf bastards.

Plus, Hurt’s teacher character’s sole achievement at the school for the deaf seems to have been teaching a few of his gigantic, elderly teenagers to put on a rather pitiful talent show number in which they attempt a synchronized dance routine to music that they cannot hear. (This is just as terrible as you think it would be.) Sadly, I could hear the music. It’s a horrible 80’s ditty about a boomerang (erang, erang).

Yes, the poor deaf un-teens, already humiliated by having to wear rejected outfits from the Culture Club Fashion House, jump and flail about to what must be considered the spiritual predecessor to that damnable Umbrella -ella -ella song.

I can’t help but think that deaf people watching this film inevitably will have a higher-quality experience that I did. The deaf and blind may just have the best time of all.