Blogger Almie Rose over at Apocalipsick recently wrote a post arguing that grand, sweeping, dramatic gestures made in the name of romance are only okay if a man is making them. When a woman does it, it’s just plain creepy. Psychotic even.
Having recently gotten married, my days of dating men–or, more fitting with this context, chasing and trying to make a man who I like be my boyfriend–are (sadly? It was fun, but this is fun, too, in a different way) over. During that time, I was accused by one or two men (who I’ve since determined are assholes and am embarassed that I ever associated with them) of being a “psycho,” which meant, basically, that I was coming on too strong, called too much, or didn’t want them to have sex with other women. This accusation, that men of a certain ilk make when they feel a dreaded commitment coming on, is the real-world manifestation of what Rose is talking about, and comes from a fear that drives the action of perhaps every thriller with a female antagonist (i.e. The Hand that Rocks the Cradle, Fatal Attraction, Play Misty for Me).
Now, the real-world manifestation of sweeping, stalker-ish romantic gestures performed by men might be just as creepy. If some guy who liked me stood outside my window blasting Peter Gabriel with a boombox raised over his head while wearing a trenchcoat, I might consider calling the cops. But, and I think this is the point, they don’t make movies about women doing things like that.
“Wait a minute,” you might say. “What about Sleepless in Seattle?” Well, dear reader, someone already thought of that (in the age of the internet, it’s really, really true that nothing hasn’t been done already). “Digital Composer” Demis Lyall-Wilson saw Sleepless in Seattle, and he thought it might work better as a thriller. I mean, it’s perfect, right? A woman hears a guy–and his kid!–on the radio talking about love, and she decides she needs to meet him, despite living across the country and being in a long-term, cohabiting relationship (her partner in which she hides from when she’s on the phone with a girlfriend, talking about the myserious radio-dude with whom she’s inexplicably in love). She hires a private detective. She looks at his mail. She goes to his place of work and asks about him. I’ve always thought it was kind of creepy (and that Meg Ryan’s character is self-aware of her creepiness in a way I’ve never seen a male character be).
So here it is, the way it should be: a movie with an outlandish premise is chopped up and reconstituted into something that feels more like it would in real life. One only wishes the composer does the same for Say Anything…
