Saturday

Possibly you're the very last person who hasn't already had someone offer you their humble opinions about the new Judd Apatow movie Knocked Up.* I will erase your distinction right now. I'm a fan of Apatow's television shows but haven't seen his other movie, the 40 Year-Old Virgin,* having, perhaps, an unfairly bigoted and sarcastic disposition against knee-jerk gender comedy. Ha ha, I said, boys vs. girls, how droool. Or perhaps more correctly: having unfairly leveled this bigotry at the Apatow film. Regardless, I didn't see it and wasn't sure I'd see this one. But critics I dislike* are finding Knocked Up tepid and false, while critics I adore* are calling it a premature classic; so we decided to see it sixteen minutes before show time yesterday instead of eating anything at all. We drove to the same Lee's Highway Multiplex so eerily deserted when we saw* 28 Weeks Later.* While I was parking, Sunshine was being carded at the ticket window: the woman wanted both IDs but Sunshine sweet-talked her. At the zombie movie, the twee little elf selling tickets was being constantly badgered by a stuffed assistant manager. Apparently, in consideration to customers like us, who'd have never known she was barefoot otherwise, he wanted her to put on some shoes. After getting snacks last night, we handed our tickets to a wooly art-house type who then stood staring at us with a little smile on his face, our tickets surreally forgotten in his hands. He started to say something, but stopped. He stood. Eventually, Sunshine said "what?" and he finally lurched to seeming normality, tearing our tickets and directing us into one fine movie. By the way, I hope my review hasn't spoiled this charming and delightful movie for you. Look for the word "gynechiatrist." [Cavin]