Confessions of a Heckler

I admit it, I heckle. I don't heckle live performers; I've been one, so I understand how painful that can be. Movies, though, I consider to be fair game.

I don't go to see movies in the theater anymore, because I'm too polite. The last movie I saw, before Twilight came out this year, was Star Wars: Episode Three: The Film That Ruined It All. I am far too polite to heckle out loud in a public theater, and I suffered severe neck spasms and abdominal cramps from holding it all in.


And, if you're curious, no I didn't heckle Twilight. Like every devoted fan, I will wait until I get my DVD, then heckle the fire out of it at home. Rosalie alone will get three viewings, I'm sure.

My heckling started at a very young age. I remember heckling The Ten Commandments as a small child. This film is a heckler's dream. I'm surprised any scenery survived the chewing. In my imagination, the director only gave one note, and he gave it to every actor and extra: "Bigger!" You know it's a wonderfully heckl-able movie when Edward G. Robinson's performance is the understated one.

From there, I continued to heckle, on and off, into my teens. It was in my twenties, however, that my heckling became a problem. Titanic, to my surprise, was not considered a comedy by most viewers. I laughed out loud at this part:


Rose: Jack? There's a boat! Jack! Jack! (continues until she finally realizes that he's dead.)
Jack: (icy nostrils still)
Rose: (Disengages her hand from his with the loudest movie-thunk ever) I'll never let go, Jack!
Deb: You just let go! What are you saying?
Jack: Glub glub sink
Deb: Ha ha ha hee hee ha ha


This earned me the Icy Death Stare from the legions of 17-year-old girls who were weeping into their Leonardo DiCaprio t-shirts. You'd think I would learn.


Enter Independence Day. This film is now banned from our house, by Sven, who can't stand my heckling. I feel very sorry about this, as it was a film he enjoyed, I believe. However, this movie infuriates me. I won't go into too much detail, but I think there is a very strong anti-female sentiment running throughout the movie. Sven finds it silly, but I still insist that there is something very Georgia O'Keefe going on with those alien space lasers, if you get my drift.


The one that could really get me in trouble, though, is The Lord Of the Rings: It Never Ends, which I believe you all know as Return of the King. Don't misunderstand me; I enjoyed the first sixteen hours of this movie. The last forty-eight, though, really wore on me. (Sorry, Mom.) I have yet to make it through the entire thing awake. I admit, during the part where Sam dramatically lifts Frodo and, feet quivering, storms up the side of Mount Krumpet to take all of the presents back to Whoville, I'm crying along with the rest of you. My heckling in this film is very specific: Orlando Bloom.

I love Orlando Bloom in these movies. I love "pretty" men, and it don't get no prettier than Orlando Bloom in a long blond wig and blue contacts. My problem is, by the third movie, Orlando does two things:

• Stares broodingly into the distance, and
• Makes prophetic statements.

At some point during hour 17 of the movie, a random thought popped into my head: He's not staring broodingly into the distance to sharpen a vision of the future; he's constipated. Since that time, every line he says is followed, in our house, by the phrase, "And still I cannot poop." So Legolas sounds like this:

Legolas: There is a ring around the moon...all men and elves move silently, and still I cannot poop.

We don't watch that one much anymore, either.

I'm not proud of this. I know it's immature and bad. Just don't ask me to stop...my back can't take it. What I can do is promise you that I will confine my heckling to my own home. It's the best I can do. Now, you promise me something.

Never let go.

Thunk.