A Night at the Movies with Pete and Frank

As is our tradition with all big “event” movies, Frank and I got together tonight to watch King Kong. We’re probably the two most undersexed sports and movie geeks ever, destined to one day become middle-aged men dwelling in our parents’ basement, damn proud of our DVD collection (a collection which will most certainly include the original Star Wars Trilogy, the Matrix Trilogy, the Lord of the Rings trilogy, the Godfather Trilogy, and all the other fucking trilogies that movie geeks absolutely cannot live without).

Minutes before the previews began for King Kong, Frank and I geeked and squeaked about whether or not Javier Vazquez will pitch well for the White Sox, and speculated as to what John Stockton has been doing post-retirement. Just like we were hosting PTI. And no, girls aren’t going to be dating us any time soon.

And then the lights dimmed, casting a deep hush between us as we leaned forward in our seats with our game faces on. The previews were beginning. The first was X-Men 3, which I responded to by pumping my fist “YESSS!” repeatedly in my seat. Then there was a preview for Mission Impossible: 3, which Frank responded to by saying, “God, Tom Cruise is so dreamy when he’s not jumping on couches or Katie Holmes.” After that, the preview for The Da Vinci Code came on, and I whistled and clapped my hands loudly. Then came Miami Vice, directed by Michael Mann (which oddly looked too similar to Mann’s last movie, Collateral). More fist pumping. Then, a preview for a new Spike Lee joint. High fives.

“This May is going to be an incredible month at the box office,” Frank whispered.

“Oh hell yes,” I replied, nodding firmly and still clapping my hands. “I’ve never seen such a good string of great previews. Too bad the Superman teaser trailer didn’t come on, eh?”

“Pete, anymore and I would have jizzed in my pants.”

The movie began and someone said SHHHHHH! And I said SHHHHHH back.

Frank ended up jizzing in his pants anyway, because King Kong, Peter Jackson’s remake of the 1933 original, IT FUCKING ROCKED. Naomi Watts. Jack Black invoking Orson Welles in his entertaining version of Carl Denham. Creepy stereotypical savages going “ooga-ooga”. Adrien Brody proving once again that he needs to stick to period flicks. A brontosaurus stampede. The bad-assed, 3-on-1 T-Rex versus King Kong fight. Giant killer insects, in particular, the huge maggot with teeth. Doomed Shakespearean love. And, the indelible image of King Kong swatting away biplanes atop the Empire State Building.

This movie had everything an old-fashioned movie-lover could want.

Sure, King Kong was flawed — it was about 45 minutes too long and the dialogue left a lot to be desired — but for a remake of one of Hollywood’s greatest classics that successfully avoided both parody and revisionism, King Kong was still a triumph. I remember groaning a couple years back when I heard that Peter Jackson, fresh off his Lord of the Rings accolades, announced to the world his plans for the remake. Tonight, the only groaning I did was from wanting to go poo but refusing to leave my seat because I was spellbound by Jackson’s masterfully directed, surprisingly touching film.

I italicise “touching” because the platonic love that develops between King Kong and Ann Darrow (Naomi Watts) and the tragic way that Kong is misunderstood will make any grown man cry. I bet the same tough football players during high school that I remember hearing sniffsniffsniff at the end of Titanic were probably bawling their eyes out during this movie too.

Near the end the movie, when a weakened Kong looked at Ann Darrow for the last time, then fell off of the Empire State Building and plunged to his death, I felt a lump in my throat. I looked over at Frank, just out of curiosity, and his eyes were blinking quickly.

In the movie’s last scene, Carl Denham walked over to Kong to take a final good look, then said as poignantly as Jack Black could manage to say it: “’Twas Beauty that killed the Beast.” Then the movie ended. Fade to black. And everyone in the movie theater felt miserable about that lovable 25-foot ape. Especially me and Frank.

Walking to our cars, feeling that disoriented feeling you get after a wonderful movie experience, there was a good three minutes of silence between me and Frank. We were both really sad but trying hard to act macho.

“Good movie,” he said finally.

“Good movie,” I replied.

Frank sighed. “Poor monkey. Oh well. Naomi Watts, even pushing 40, is still fucking hot, isn’t she?”

“Sure is,” I said. I paused for a bit, then smirked becaused I rediscovered how to be a man again and said, “You know, for all that shit King Kong went through for her, the least Naomi could’ve done is give him a handjob.”

“She would have to wrap her entire arms around his dick,” Frank quipped, laughing and looking around to see if any children heard that. “It would be like hugging a tree.”

“His King Dong,” I added.