As I understand it, Shyamalan cast people from completely different racial groups.  In his defense,  how many skilled Inuit actors can be found in Hollywood, or anywhere?  How many Inuits are there in the world, period?

But as Malcolm said, upon hearing this, “Isn’t Shyamalan INDIAN?”  As in, descended from people born in India.  Well, yes.  And therefore, Malcolm implied, shouldn’t Shyamalan of all people know better than to swap out one racial group for another?  Again, yes.  Probably.

However, in the annals, or anals, or horrendous cross-cultural casting, nothing beats the brilliant decision by Blake Edwards, director of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, to cast Irish-American Mickey Rooney as Audrey Hepburn’s Japanese neighbor.  Talk about appalling.

Compared to Blake, M. Night is a paragon of “close enough” virtue. 

When the boys were little and I had to take them to horrible movies like Pokemon 3, smuggling a book and a flashlight into the theatre was the only thing that saved my sanity.   Chris drew the short straw on the Thomas the Tank Engine movie, as I recall.

I still remember some of the brilliantly scripted moments in Pokemon 3.  Immortal lines like “Maybe you will, Ash.  MAYBE YOU WILL.”  That movie was written by a 19 year old in about 25 minutes.

Times have changed, the boys have aged, their taste in movies has improved, and they usually don’t want us to darken the door of a theatre with them.  Recently though, Chris and I drove into the city at 10 PM with Ian to see Whatever Works, in which Larry David channels Woody Allen.

We were all entertained in equal measure.  There was a rollicking movie review discussion on the drive back home.  Ian contributed information we didn’t have, and vice versa.

So hang in there, those of you with little kids who are still getting roped into watching dreadful movies at the theatre.  Things will improve.   There will come a time when you’re going to a movie that everyone wants to see equally.   It may sound impossible, but this is the kind of miracle that really does happen, in time.

We hadn’t had a date in quite some time.  A family date that is, i.e. one in which it is just the four of us.  We tend to get on each others nerves when there is no one else around to distract us.  Yet despite our best efforts no one would go out with us on Saturday night, leaving Dave and I to stare at each other and ask ourselves, “What are we going to do with THEM?” 

Dave is recovering from some sort of injury he incurred doing some sort of activity he can’t remember.  The pain is in his shoulder, but I fear it has spread to the part of his brain that has opinions, which meant I was driving the bus.

“Dinner and a movie?” I suggest. 

“Okay.”

“Night at the Museum II?”

“Okay.”

“Sushi?”

His eyes suddenly come to life. (I take note.  In case he evers falls into a coma, just whisper “Spicy Tuna Roll.”)

“Teikoku?” he asks. 

No, that is not the Japanese word for “Sounds like a plan but what I really want to do is send them out to a sleepover and hold you in my arms all night, letting go only to feed you raw cookie dough.”   

Teikoku is a really nice sushi restaurant where we go when we want to blow a lot of money and not feel too terrible about it.  Yippeee!  Off we went.

The evening was a rousing success.  It was completely sophistimicated which is the only way I can describe the combination of a kick ass Poseidon roll and Ben Stiller.  The kids expanded their palate to include eel and salmon rolls, my hubby and I each had a yummy Mojito, and we were all on our best behavior.  And even though it crossed both our minds at the exact same time, Dave and I refrained from taking the munchkins to see “Drag Me to Hell”, which was playing the next theater.  I heard there are some naughty words in that one.  Besides I’ve “been there and done that” having survived this year’s little league playoff season.

Parents who have sat through movies with their children know that any film which an adult can remotely relate to is a Godsend.  Night at the Museum II was so much better than Shark Boy and Lava Girl but it was also one of the goofier flicks which means the brothers L-O-V-E-D it.  We will now endure weeks on end of both of the them repeating the dialogue back and forth to one another incessantly. 

Boom Boom Firepower! 

However, I have to admit that the Ben Stiller / Seth Rogan scene was delightful.

The evening was a reminder of how much I like my family.  And how much I love watching my kids laugh.  These things tend to get lost on me in the last days of school when we are all running in different directions and fighting over stupid things.  But there are moments like tonight when we were walking out into the parking lot after the movie with the kids happily running ahead and Dave and I walking behind them and I think this is the team I want to be on pretty much forever.

I’m not a huge James Bond fan.  I’m not even a small James Bond fan. And I have never found any of the actors who portray 007 the least bit appealing.  But my house is filled with Y-chromosome type species which means James Bond will live another day.

Yet despite my ennui for this misogynist character, I am always intrigued with the titles of the James Bond movies, mostly for their distinction from one another.  With the exception of the words “live” and “gold” and “day”, the movie writers mix up the film names quite a bit and for good reason.  The titles may be the only element about each installment that is truly different from the last.  James Bond XVII just wouldn’t cut it.

And while Bond has an uncanny ability to save himself from the most harrowing situations, I often wonder how he would fare taking care of my kids for a few hours.  So, for every parent out there who has ever experienced a hissy fit because the chocolate milk was shaken and not stirred (or vice versa), here are the real 007 titles from our very own lives.  

Head Lice Never Dies

You Only Bite Once

The Cookie is not Enough

Timeouts are Forever

Toybraker or…. Sickfaker

The Mom with the Silver Mini Van

The Required Nightlights

Never Say Maybe Again

For Your Rash Only

Dr. No, But Maybe Next Time if You Behave Better

Stickyfingers

Give In or Let Cry

Quantum of Homework

Robitussy

On His Majesty’s Secret Pillow Fort

Lazy Eye

Banana Fudge Royale

Kill Another Goldfish

The Brother Who Kicked Me

A Cue for the Pill

From Mommy, With Love

How many of these have you seen?

 *******

P.S.  MoB is hoping to receive a nomination for the 2008 Web Blog Awards in the following categories:

Best Parenting Blog and Best Hidden Gem

If we haven’t shamelessly asked you yet, and you think we might be worthy of a nod, please follow the link below and nominate us before November 19.  All you have to do is click on the nomination index, find our category,  and click on the + sign in the lower right corner of one of our nomination entries.  Or you can submit a stand alone entry through the comments.  Please note that you have to scroll fairly far down the Hidden Gem nominations before we pop up.  Thanks for your help!!

Before having babies, I had illusions. My children would wear hand-knit sweaters, play with wooden toys, and eat what their parents ate. They would sleep through the night at four months, effortlessly learn a second language as toddlers, shake hands and make eye contact like small diplomats at 36 months. None of this folly came to pass.

Even my small goals were stymied. Because I had loved The Red Balloon as a child, I dreamed that my kids would love it too. When the boys were preschoolers, we had these devices called “VCRs.” I would pop a tape in, hit Play, and sit back with whichever little towhead was a preschooler at the time. Wriggling would begin even before Pascal got punished for bringing his red balloon to school.

As bullies in short pants and wool socks tried to kill the red balloon on the charming cobblestoned streets of Paris, my child would be lunging to be free of my arms, craving nothing more than the freedom to go chew Duplos.

Betrayed, I beseeched the heavens, “Why? Why can’t my kid at least like The Red Balloon? Is that so much to ask, that he and I share a favorite video – one we both enjoy? How can he not be fascinated by this incredible classic that transcends language? How can he prefer Power Rangers and Pokemon?”

Friends have reported the same frustration. Lindsay was crushed when her boys didn’t embrace her childhood favorite, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Trying to whip up enthusiasm, there she sat, bouncily singing “Oh Chitty, Whoo Chitty, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang!” and her boys were like, “Mom’s weird. Let’s go outside and hit each other with sticks.”

However, hope springs eternal in the human heart. There’s always the next generation, right?

It’s Labor Day and last night we officially reached threat level orange at the house. With just 24 hours left before the school year started, the brothers had been deftly executing parallel jihads all weekend long — against each other and against their parents. Dave and I, having exhausted all diplomacy during these last weeks of summer, had no choice but to turn to the ultimate weapon.

At approximately 8:00 p.m. eastern standard time last night, we turned on the ABC Family Channel and made the boys watch The Sound of Music with us. If that wasn’t bad enough, we sang along during our favorite parts. Extra Loud. And I, admittedly, do not know all of the words.

So Do La Fa Me Re Do!!!

Noah caved first, asking if he could PLEASE go to bed before the Baroness even showed up. Chase, who I always suspected had more mettle, withstood the entire film, but was reduced to a shell of a boy, only able to lay quietly on a soft pillow throughout the entire second half.

Was it torture? Perhaps. But in the interest of our homeland security – actually just theirs – it had to be done. May the universe and all the believers in the principles of the Geneva Convention forgive us.

Continuing my mission to ruin teenage lives, I decided that Hugh should not see the R-rated movie “Wanted” over the weekend or ever, for that matter. Because 17-year-old Ian had already shown me the Russian trailer (even more explicit than the American one) on YouTube, I knew what this motion picture was about. Sexolence. Violex. Even without seeing the trailer, you know that if Angelina Jolie is involved, it’s not Disney fare. Even if she is a Mother of Brothers.

And thus, when Hugh was invited to see “Wanted” with a friend and the friend’s dad, Chris and I agreed to exercise our parental controls and nix the whole idea. Hugh was outraged. “I’ve already seen 300!” “Yes, that’s too bad. We wish you hadn’t seen that. At least we can stop you from seeing Wanted.” A few hours went by, and another call came in from another friend inviting Hugh to see “Wanted.” He really wanted “Wanted,” but with resignation, he turned down the second invitation.

Then he played outside with Malcolm and a gang of friends all day. The weather was beautiful. It was free. He’s 13.

But then I went to see it.

To our wonderful male readers: I love you but you may stop reading. This post is not for you. You will not get it. My commitment to gender-neutral blogging entertainment will resume on Friday.

To our female readers. Go. Just go see the movie. But don’t go with just anyone. Choose your posse with care. Go with your best friends. Or your sisters. Go with the girlfriends who show up at your grandmother’s funeral. Or the ones who totally rescue you from your less-than -stellar 23r^d birthday. Or the ones who know that you made some undergraduate relationship miscalculations but don’t judge you for it. Because Sex and the City has very little to do with sex and everything to do with friendship.

I went to see the movie with my oldest friend L, and my college roommate, S. (who just happen to have become close friends with one another in their own right, which totally tickles me). It was a night out. But the poignancy was unexpected. I won’t give away the plot but suffice it to say that I welled up more than once. But only during the moments between the four friends. Total girl on girl. I know I am talking about Sex and the City here but it really was all about love and forgiveness. And about caring deeply for the people who matter most.

There are just a handful of humans on this planet who I describe this way:

When I am with them, I am exactly me. Their love and friendship feeds my being. And I leave them completely whole, and bigger than just myself.

Most of these people share my DNA in some form, like my sister. But there are a few others. L and S, to be sure. One lives in Ohio. And a few men to boot – you know who you are. The SATC characters are not molded after my friends — but their loyalty to one another is. I hope everyone out there has a friend who will spoon feed them when they need the help.

But if you go to see Sex, a fair warning: Go out to eat first. Because you leave there wanting to totally spew every secret you ever had to the people sitting next to you. I was best off jumping into mini-van and high-tailing it home before I got too snuggly and verbose.

Two thumbs up – mostly for the company. Yeah, the Sex was pretty good – but I prefer the friendship.