I should have known when Kristen Wiig and Melissa McCarthy were nominated for Oscars. Maybe I should have known when “Bridesmaids” got great reviews for being well-written and refreshingly — considering some of the raunchy subject matter — from a woman’s point of view. All I know is that after all this time, no one had warned me that I was going to need a stack of hankies next to my popcorn to get me through it. Can I really be the only one?
Okay, I know I’m a little sensitive. (This post from the past shines a light on that.) But as a woman experiencing failure and the steep climb to make my way out, as well as life without a significant other and (all right, in the spirit of honesty) I’ll cop to having a boatload of quirks that punctuates it all, I cried through approximately 25 per cent of “Bridesmaids.”
I’d waited a long time to see it, and last Friday when I settled in to have some fun and forget real life, the first sequence actually put a little knot in my stomach. The tears began later and lasted so long that the sleeve I was sopping them up with got wet and cold from all the use. The air of realism hit me like a brick. Now, don’t get me wrong. I experienced a lot of belly laughs during “Bridesmaids” too. I laughed especially hard at the awfulness in the snooty dress shop, and by the end of the movie, mercifully, I was all smiles. I love this movie. But sometimes it hit like a hammer.
I discussed this last Saturday with a friend who’d seen it quite a while ago, and she was surprised because she remembered it as a very funny, good time. After I explained my reaction, she said, “Oh, yeah…” and nodded, seeming to understand. Of course, that could have been out of pity for me because of the afore-mentioned sensitivity and infernal quirks. I’m glad she was too nice to say it to my face.
To the other weeping “Bridesmaids” lovers out there (I cannot be the only one!), let’s show some solidarity, okay? Can’t we love this movie and be true to its gut-wrenching nature? It’s time for us sensitive folk to stand up for ourselves and say it’s okay to cry like a baby at home or in a theater, and it’s okay to warn each other about the chances of it happening. I think we need a website to help us know how many napkins to bring to a movie. (Yes, I said napkins. Frequent criers know that regular tissues just fall apart when wet and leave tell-tale fuzz all over your face after you use them. I like to dash into Starbucks to keep my purse stocked so I’m always ready. Isn’t that what Starbucks is for?)
I’m serious about being forewarned. Just as serious as I was back when I yelled out how unfair the ending of “Sommersby” was as the end credits rolled in the theater. At least five people agreed with me loudly, through their own tears, as my sister slunk down next to me in her seat in case anyone she knew was there — because she’s lucky. I’ve never seen her cry at the movies. We won’t go into how many times she’s seen me with tissue fuzz stuck to my face. Before I learned.