Just got back from an afternoon showing of “Running With Scissors.” Lots of pre-release hype and some buzz about Annette Benning being nominated for an Oscar for her performance in it brought out a bigger-than-usual crowd to my local multi-plex. I had planned to go with my chief fellow flick-goers, my sister and my daughter. But at the last minute my husband decided to join us. “Will I like this?” he kept asking. I knew I should have discouraged him but he still brings up the fact that I told him not to come see “Devil Wears Prada” with me and his pals swore it was funny. (I stand by my un-recommendation on that one – I loved it; he would have hated it.)
Anyhoo, I had read the memoir that the movie was based on and knew what we were probably in for. The other three members of my movie-going party hadn’t. Their verdict (and that of the rest of the audience)? Weird. Well, yeah. Augusten Burroughs, the author of the book, had a majorly weird childhood – his mother (Annette B., whose performance was indeed incredible) gave him to her wacked out psychiatrist to raise in a family that makes my mildly neurotic one look like poster people for mental health.
Sure enough, as we walked out, I heard one woman saying to another, “Thank goodness I didn’t bring George with us!” (Lucky her.) And then my sister kept on worrying about what happened to the book’s author/movie protagonist in real life. “Is he okay now?” she fretted. Well, let’s see, he had a book on the best-seller list for a gazillion years and now they made a big movie out of it with an all-star cast. I’d say he’s just fine and actually a whole lot better off than moi, who will basically never hear the end of having schlepped these three fussy film-goers to his movie.