The fall movie season is always a bit bland. Summer blockbusters have came and went (we remember you with fond disappointment, Superman and X3) and the big Christmas hit have yet to come (bring it on, Nativity Story and Rocky - shudder).

But along came a film so unexpectedly good - despite high expectations – and so unbelievably truthful – despite the fact that it is a mockumentray - that K and I could not even fathom the idea of not seeing it. Yes, it was time to revel in the genius of a Cambridge educated Jewish Brit, acting like a Kazakhstani reporter; it was time to see the Borat movie – the most anticipated movie of the fall, or at least the second most because I can’t wait to find out if Russel Crowe really quits his fancy Wall Street job for the physical and emotional fulfillment of running a winery in Southern France.

Of course, the cinema gods used every dirty trick in the book to trip us up on our journey to keep pace with the rigorous pop culture standards. First, in all of their evil geniuserie, they decided to open the film in only two locations, each at least three busses and forty-five minutes away. As tried and true down-town Ottawanians, we fear to venture anywhere that we can’t walk to, a condition exacerbated by the fact that we are sans car. But, as people over the age of twenty-five with clean driving records and major credit cards, we overcame the roadblock by renting one for the occasion. Take that!

Then, a lineup rivaling that of Return of the King on opening day forced us to sit two rows from the Imax sized screen among gaggles of noisy suburban teenie boppers, who were like, so totally excited to, like, see this- it’s supposed to be, like, ten times better than that new Sarah Michelle Gellar movie and she is, like, so cool.

So, there we sat, K and I, two rows from the front and three seats from the right side wall. All of the on-screen shoes looked like VW bugs and everyone’s head was floating like distant hot air balloons. But it really didn’t matter. Seeing a balding ‘humour coach’ getting his tweed sports jacket turned inside out by Borat, who doesn’t even get gist of the ‘NOT!” joke, you understand the cleaver genius of the film, and the you bother to look for it in the grossest of moments no matter where you are in the theater.

There wasn’t a moment that I wasn’t doubled over in my seat in laughter, but there were parts where I had to cover my eyes. It was a bit like watching a horror movie, except instead of peaking through your fingers to see if the masked serial killer was finished hacking up the college co-ed, you were checking to see if Borat was still wearing a poorly assembled banana hammock (I'll keep the photo small).

Anyway, I’ve said too much. Go and see the movie.

Now.

D.

Posted by D. on Tuesday, November 7 at Tuesday, November 07, 2006 | Permalink