"So many people wearing sunglasses indoors," the 'Fesser observed last night. We were watching The Blues Brothers, the scene in which Jake and Elwood perform "Sweet Home, Chicago" in front of an audience riddled with cops, cowboys, and John Candy all waiting to kick their asses, to be specific.
Make of this what you will, but the cinetrix has seen The Blues Brothers more times than she has seen any other movie. That's right, more times than she's sat through interminable holiday showings of The Wizard of Oz, The Sound of Music, and It's a Wonderful Life, combined. It's my favorite musical, no question.
I can't remember the first time I saw the movie. I have shamefaced suspicions it was because of some boy [the same reason I saw Blade Runner and used to watch Doctor Who even though the music freaked me out]. Since then, while I've seen it bleeped on broadcast and intact on video, I've never seen it projected, and I'd never seen it on DVD. Until last night.
Here's the thing. On DVD, The Blues Brothers is different. Did you know that Elwood had a job? Or garaged the Bluesmobile? Me, neither. Did you need to? Probably not. The whole experience of spectatorship became increasingly unnerving as the 'Fesser and I sat side by side on the sofa in shock, commenting "That's new" upon hearing additional dialogue from Maury Sline or watching a gas tanker blow up or witnessing Cab Calloway perform an additional, cocaine-themed verse of "Minnie the Moocher."
Don't get me wrong, it was a wonder watching a crystalline print of a beloved movie. For instance, right before the Good Ole Boys' Winnebago goes crashing into the drink, it sails by a shop with the sign "Mr. Bills" on the facade. Funny, huh?
We're still planning on getting the movie on DVD for the 'Fesser's dad and for my father, both huge fans. [The 'Fesser's dad's favorite line: "No, ma'am. We're musicians."] Without knowing about our fathers' mania for the Brothers Blues, the 'Fesser and I watched the movie the first weekend we hung out together.
Thanks in no small part to my dad, I know every line of dialogue, every music cue and song lyric. Under hypnosis, or after a few bourbons, I could probably recite the whole movie. And do all the dances. My dad would even leave messages on my machine in college when he noticed it was going to be on tv, so we could watch it together while apart. We invoked it nonstop when he drove with me to Chicago, where I joked I'd be living in an SRO next to the El, just like Elwood. [It is a source of eternal sorrow that once we arrived in Chicago, we did not dine at Chez Paul, which has since closed.]
Not to sound all Carrie Bradshaw or anything, but what do you do when you've grown up with a movie--know it as well as you know your own face--only to discover it's changed? I'm still trying to figure that one out. [I think Warner Bros. has the right idea.] My resolve that I will never watch the Belushi corpse-fuck that is Blues Brothers 2000 is stronger than ever, that's for sure.
I'm reminded of the time, a few years ago, when we went to see Pee-wee's Big Adventure [another formative film text in the cinetrix's girlhood] projected at a rep house. Sitting up in the balcony, I was initially dismayed when a clot of sullen yet chatty teens took the row behind us. Great, they'll ruin this moment I've been waiting for, I thought. I was so wrong. By the end of the screening I wanted to see every one of my favorites with them. You see, not only did they know every word, they even sang along with the background music.
