The other night I watched one of the best movies I’d seen in a long time. Not Shawshank best, or Sense & Sensibility best, not even Tootsie best–more like Fried Green Tomatoes best. A total chick flick that left me crying that good cry. The perfect blend of quirky, crave, sass, and hormone treatment, Waitress is a ridiculously adorable film with snappy dialog and peculiar characters so endearing that it makes you want to up and leave the house in a bathrobe to make new friends. If you ask me, there aren’t nearly enough over the top, I don’t give a rat’s testicle what you think of me people. (Do rats have testicles?) Sick, now all I can think of is that little silver ball inside an etch-a-sketch.
I want to go bake pies, to slice up a bunch of peaches on a brand new wooden block, to muddle berries and fold them into a drape of chocolate, and dammit, I want to meet more characters that tell it like it is, don’t give a hoot what all you have to say about their business, people who say “what all.” And then I want to sing to my babies and put on a yellow dress.
Aside from the intentionally strange people in the film, I found myself rooting for things about which I’m morally opposed. It’s like those movies where you want the killer to get off on a technicality. You don’t want them to get caught. You want their sick twisted bank robbery to go off without a snag. You want them to get away with the diamonds or the other woman’s husband. Or you’re psyched when Sawyer shoots Zeek in the head. Yeah, PSYCHED someone was killed.
What I learn when I watch these films is no matter how staunch my moral convictions, I begin to question them after movies like this. Maybe I can find my way across the line and somewhat understand, even side with, “the other woman.” And while I love the ability of art to force me to reconsider things, one thing ain’t changin’: men who wear their hair down to the middle of their backs are not, ever, appealing.