Christmas Release

“That really ticks me off.”

“Eat your spaghetti, dear.”

“What was the point?”

“The food is getting cold.”

“Wouldn’t give us our money back. Says we aren’t eligible for a refund ’cause we sat through the whole thing. Well, of course we did. All the way until it said The End I kept hoping they’d finally give us something worth paying thirty bucks for. Coulda bought myself two hammers and a birdhouse kit.”

“Please, dear. Don’t ruin the meal. Spaghetti gorgonzola. It’s your favourite.”

“And then, when the credits rolled, and you wanted to leave, I kept hoping.”

“Will you pass me the breadsticks?”

“And when the lights came on and that janitor came in with the garbage can and said we had to leave so he could get it all cleaned up for the next show, I kept hoping.”

“And the olive oil, too, please.”

“All the way up the aisle, I kept looking back at that blank screen, thinking maybe, just maybe, they were finally going to tell us what the point of it all was. That it would suddenly say, Surprise! Here’s the point. We were just kidding around.”

“Rob and Margot’s grandchild came. Did I tell you? Another girl.”

“Last one in the darned room, except that janitor. And the popcorn on the floor. I kept looking back, hoping. For something. And … nothing.”

“Margot’s out shopping for baby clothes. I’m so happy for them.”

“No point. Nothing. I couldn’t believe it.”

“Of course, they can still re-use some of the same clothes from the last one. And the crib, of course. But it’s always fun to shop. If it’d been a boy they’d have to shop.”

“There’s got to be a point. People need to have a point. Especially with a Christmas release. Don’t they know that?”

“Should I get the waiter to wrap your dinner?”

“I told that janitor he could sweep up that darned movie and put it in that garbage can, too. Where it belongs.”

“It’s a shame to waste it. You can have it for lunch tomorrow. Here, we’ll take some breadsticks.”

“Really ticks me off. Thirty bucks. You know what I’m going to do? When we get home, I’m going to write a letter. No, two letters. One to the theatre, and another to that Hollywood production company. There’s got to be a point. Come on, now, honestly, don’t you think so?”

John and Anne hadn’t really expected anything from the movie. They’d seen the reviews and there was nothing bad, so they went. They weren’t cinema buffs. It was just part of the routine, something to do before their dinner reservation. Usually, they’d go to the Ciné Palace 18, at the far end of the mall, where John complained about the size of the seats, but not, typically, the film.

“Darned things keep getting skinnier,” he said. “How else would they manage to cram eighteen in one building? Next year, maybe it’ll be nineteen. And I’ll be too fat.”

This film, though, was only showing at the old art theatre downtown, a Spanish-themed remnant of the 1920s, which specialised in somewhat more highbrow fare, and was conveniently located near John and Anne’s favourite Italian restaurant. It was dark and neglected. It needed deep cleaning. They kept their jackets on because the boiler was out. But the seating presented no issues for John.

“I can live without the drink holder,” he said. “And the phone charger.”

The picture they saw was another matter. John was so riled afterwards, he couldn’t keep his treasured MG between the lines. Anne rescued the keys, and coaxed the wheel away from John.

“How many millions do you think they wasted on that?” he asked her.

“I think it couldn’t matter less,” she replied. “They weren’t your millions.”

“I just can’t understand why anyone would go to the trouble of making something so … unfulfilling. Spend all that money. Distribution. Advertising. Why? I mean, besides pure greed.”

“Oh, come on, now. I didn’t care much about it one way or another. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it was a dud. But to go on obsessing the way you are?”

“No, no, no, Anne. There should be a reason. I mean, I’m not sure what you saw on that screen. But all I saw was some very nice-looking, though not so likeable people, who behaved badly and mistreated each other. I couldn’t tell who to root for. All the way over, honey. You’re still in neutral. You’ve been driving automatic too long.”

With some muscle, Anne got the gearshift to co-operate.

“And then,” John said, “the one guy dies and … that’s it? The end? What are we supposed to take away from that?”

Anne laughed. “Well, I do think you left out one or two things, dear.”

“Oh, clever dialogue, sure. Better than perfect, almost a ballet. The marquee didn’t say ballet. How much do you think they threw away on those scriptwriters?”

John was not ordinarily difficult. Sub-standard customer experiences did not normally send him running for the manager. He took most mistakes and accidents in stride, and if the entertainment was silly, or even flat-out bad, he wasn’t upset. A silly film might be excused. Fun and games were fun and games. This film, however, had been presented to the movie-going public as art, and as such, in John’s view, was bound to be held to a higher standard.

“A Christmas release, especially,” he insisted, “has got to have a point.”

What offended him was not a lack of quality, but of purpose. He simply couldn’t tolerate—perhaps due to his profession, which was accounting—things that remained forever and intentionally ambiguous. He’d been trained to view unsolved problems as errors. To John, a balance sheet was poetry, and a bookkeeping ledger, a metaphor for human life. He’d recently retired, but for decades on his office wall there’d been a cartoon drawing, with the caption:

“IT CAN BE MESSY AND UGLY ON TOP, BUT ON THE BOTTOM LINE IT’S ALL GOT TO ADD UP.”

This was the maxim by which John lived, and which had caused him, through experience, to stay away from certain things, like rotary engines, postmodern art and all French cuisine that wasn’t onion soup. He would not likely admit it, but things that had no clear-cut meaning kind of scared him. He’d thought that he was fairly safe with Hollywood.

“They’re still market driven,” he reasoned. “They can’t afford to throw us too many curveballs.”

What it all amounted to, was that from every situation or encounter John demanded just one thing: not to be left scratching his head afterwards, wondering. This movie had failed him. It ought to have given him some moral, some message. Finding no trace of either when the lights came back on, he’d went straight to the ticket window to collect a full refund. There, a teenaged assistant manager summarily rebuffed him, and John embarrassed Anne by announcing loudly to each person in line that the film was a dud, that they should instead spend their money on something useful.

“Like two hammers and a birdhouse kit,” he blurted, storming out.

“Really, dear,” Anne said. “Did you have to do that?”

“You bet I did. It’s the principle, honey.”

Movie studios and theaters suffer no dearth of complaints from irate patrons and horrified parents, objecting to an excess of this, or gratuitous that. The people paid to read and route such foul mail can probably predict the volume each troublesome new release is liable to get, and what it will say. John’s two letters—one to the theatre, the other to the Hollywood production company—might have confused the recipients as much as their film had stymied John.

“There was no point,” he wrote. “It was sloppy and vague, like an asset ledger into which you’ve been habitually posting journal entries to the wrong accounts. Was this deliberate? The cost buckets were mislabelled. The bottom line did not add up.”

John was no wordsmith, he knew that. He undoubtedly went overboard with the accounting jargon. But the feeling was there. And with a little reluctant help from Anne—“Please, dear, I’m not the one missing the point”—he had both letters done and printed by midnight. In the morning, he re-read them and was glad they still made sense. They articulated, anyway, what was in his heart.

“Frankly, I feel cheated. You can’t go around debiting where nothing of value has been given or received. As we say in my business, that ain’t kosher.”

Spooning his grapefruit, John nodded. “Ticked off, but still serious. That’s the main thing. I’m not some crank.”

“I don’t care, anymore, about the refund. You can keep my hard-earned money. But, really, sir, if this is the sort of empty stuff that you produce, if this is the shoddy way you balance your books, I think you’re overdue for a forensic audit.”

“Correct,” John said. “That’s right.”

“In closing, I must reiterate that I am not just blowing smoke. Your answer is important to me. If there’s no ink in your machine, when you hit SUBTOTAL there’ll be nothing on the tape, not even zeroes. I can’t believe you meant to do that (???) Thank you in advance for clearing this up.”

John sealed the envelopes, added stamps, and dropped them in the corner box on the way to the park with the dog. Yes, he could have sent them electronically and already been done. But the old-fashioned way, he felt, better suited the circumstance, for some reason. Also, he thought the novelty of an actual physical letter might impress the person at the other end (Here’s one complainer, at least, who takes the time to do it right), and that he’d therefore stand a better chance of a reply. He truly wanted one, an explanation for the apparently pointless cinematic effort, and its sour aftertaste.

“Go get your ball, Duke. Go on. Go on and get it.”

The odds of receiving any response, John knew, were slim. At least, where Hollywood was concerned. “Too busy,” he thought, “with their parties and their mansions and their mistresses.”

On the other hand, they were market driven, and what was he, if not the market? A small piece of it, anyway. Surely, there was one movie mogul in California with enough capitalistic common sense to recognise the value of engaging with the consumer?

“Attaboy, Duker. Woah, there it goes. Go get it, boy.”

John pictured the nameless Hollywood executive—a suntanned youngster wearing expensive shoes, but no socks—reading the letter at his desk. How would he react? Shake his head? Reach for the phone? Order his secretary to set up an emergency board meeting?

“Gentlemen. Main Street is dissatisfied. Columbus, Ohio, has spoken. There is no point to what we’ve made. Our ledger is a mess, the buckets are mislabelled, the bottom line does not add up. I repeat, no point. Whatever the cost, gentlemen, however long it takes, we’ve got to remedy these intolerable flaws to please the customer.”

John smiled. “Heads will roll,” he joked. “Hey, Duke. Go on and get it!”

“Look, John, I can’t tell you what the point is. Nobody can. You’ve got to suss it out for yourself.”

“Suss it out?”

“You’ve got to draw your own conclusions. It’s not a team sport.”

Anne had invited Rob and Margot over for dinner. She wanted to hear about the new grandbaby.

“I’ve got lots of pics,” said Margot.

“Adorable,” Anne gushed. “Just look at that pink outfit.”

The pink outfit was emblazoned with purple elephants and green giraffes, also adorable, but not enough to fuel the conversation all evening. Other topics would be needed. At the first opportunity—ignoring some dirty looks from Anne—John brought out his movie letters. He passed them around with the cheese and roasted nuts.

“No response,” he shrugged. “None. What else is new?”

“It’s been three weeks, dear,” Anne said. “Give them a chance.”

“Oh, yes,” Margot said, “we saw this, too. Remember, Rob, you said it reminded you of nuns pole dancing?”

“Aha,” said John. “So, you agree it was a dud. Still, it has to have some meaning. Please, Rob. Enlighten me. What was the point?”

John was anxious to get an expert opinion from Rob, a professor of philosophy, the deepest thinker he knew. John was so intense, Rob felt guilty letting him down.

“Sure,” he said, “I could tell you what I think the point was. But that would be my point. It wouldn’t help you with your point.”

John’s face said: you can’t be serious. His mouth was less kind. “Philosophy? You mean baloney.”

Rob laughed. “What I mean is, what you got out of the movie is unique only to you. If you got nothing from it, so be it. Remember, John, nothing is still something.”

“Huh?”

“I think you should celebrate that discovery. Instead of being mad about the one you didn’t make.”

“No, no, no. You guys saw it. A Christmas release? Without a point?”

“Maybe that is the point,” said Margot. “That there’s none.”

“That’s what I said,” said Anne. “He’s not buying it.”

“I already did buy it,” John said. “Thirty bucks’ worth. I’m just trying to figure out what it is I bought. I thought Rob would have the answer.”

“Careful,” Margot warned him. “Unless you want the whole, in-depth analysis. Push him too hard and he’ll make you listen to the Nietzschean interpretation, followed by the Hegelian, followed by the Socratic. It could get ugly.”

Rob laughed, helped himself to a spoonful of almonds, and made his escape. “Buckeyes looked good Saturday,” he said to John. “Think they’ll get past Michigan State?”

The ladies returned their attention to the green giraffes.

“All right, okay,” John said, gathering his letters. “Forget I said anything.”

It was nearly August when the Hollywood production company answered John. He ran his finger along the inside of the envelope, turned it upside-down and shook it. No letter was there. Only a coupon. “Enjoy the next one on us!” it said, and on the back, some more things John needed his reading glasses for.

“The bearer of this ticket is entitled to half-price admission on any Icarus Pictures film, redeemable at any theatre in the United States, for any showtime excluding weekends and weekday evenings after 5:00.”

Soon afterwards, the theatre manager sent a handwritten note saying he was sorry his reply had taken so long but the theatre had only just reopened after a six-month shutdown.

“Code violations,” he explained. “The building inspector hates us. We literally had to lay everyone off and then rehire them. The boiler’s working again.”

He said he was unfortunately not able to offer John a cash refund, but would gladly comp him $10 in concessions on his next visit.

“I put your name on the list. I know what you mean about that movie. I thought it sucked, too. Not exactly sure what it was about, actually.”

Sitting in his home office, John did the math. By going to an Icarus Pictures movie with the coupon (instead of Anne), he would realise a saving of $22.50. If he also claimed his $10 of free popcorn, that would make $32.50, better than the $30 wasted on the pointless Christmas release. His bottom line would then add up, more or less. Although … suppose this film was just as pointless as the first? Or even more so, if that was possible? Then he’d be back in the hole again, half-price or not, and if it continued like that, he’d never get out.

“Just turn in the darned coupon,” John instructed himself, “get the popcorn, maybe watch the previews, and leave.” It was safer that way. He did not want to have to write any more letters.

For New Year’s resolutions, it was far too early or embarrassingly late. But, staring out the window at the rhubarb in his garden, John planted a few. 1) He vowed to be more careful of Hollywood. 2) He’d do a better job researching before surrendering his cash. 3) Saturday, he’d go to Ace and buy two hammers and a birdhouse kit.

“What I should’ve done in the first place.”

He already had two hammers. Birds were nothing but trouble, how they helped themselves to his tomatoes and raspberries.

“A 10-inch pry bar, then. Paint stripper. And a plastic snake.”

Or something. When he got to the hardware store, it would be clear. Among nuts and bolts and solvent, he would browse the aisles with purpose, filling his cart until all accounts were settled, and the points lined up.

David Kemper lives in Chicago.