Hollywood Square

I alienate my crushes by forcing them to watch Summer Rental.

by Will Doig

October 23, 2007

"People think it's dumb, but it's actually kind of genius!" This was me, effusing about Summer Rental, the 1985 film that the New York Times' review described as "largely uneventful." I was not drunk. In fact, I couldn't have been more lucid with anticipation. I had pulled Summer Rental off the shelf and was trying to convince my date that we should rent it instead of whatever normal film he already had in his hand.

"Are you sure you're thinking of the right movie?" he asked, taking it from me and turning it over. "This is that John Candy one about the beach house."

"Yeah!" I said. "I know it seems dumb, but it's really funny! Remember John Candy falls asleep in the sun and gets sunburned?"

This is my fatal flaw when it comes to dating: my love for shitty '80s and '90s Hollywood comedies that you can find encased in tattered VHS sleeves at your local yard sale. These are not movies that are "so bad they're funny," like Howard the Duck. They're not cult classics like Haunted Honeymoon, nor are they campy icons like Outrageous Fortune or nostalgia-fests like The Goonies. And they're not the kind of movies you like to watch because they embarrassingly star some now-famous actor before they hit big, like Love Potion #9 with Sandra Bullock as a socially inept scientist.

I'm talking about middling movies that were released to ambivalent reviews and adequate box office. Sitcom-ish movies that nobody loves, nobody hates and nobody rents. Movies like House Sitter. Taking Care of Business. The Super. Punchline. Volunteers. My Blue Heaven. Movies that feel as if they were written by committee via conference call. They star big-name actors who took the "role" mainly for the cash so they're phoning it in. They feature nondescript scores written by nameless bands who write nondescript movie scores for a living. They're the types of movies which two separate studios make twice to cash in on the first one's popularity. K-9 and Turner and Hooch. Like Father Like Son and Vice Versa.

And Delirious. Have you seen Delirious? I beg you to see Delirious — another vehicle for John Candy, God rest his soul. He plays a soap-opera screenwriter who gets stuck in his own show. Or See No Evil, Hear No Evil. This was one of Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor's last films together. They play a deaf guy and a blind guy who are falsely accused of a murder and must solve the crime themselves. Kevin Spacey costars. There's also Gung Ho!, Oscar, Brewster's Millions (John Candy and Richard Pryor again), Only the Lonely (James Belushi, John Candy) and Nothing But Trouble (Big John Candy).

I love these comedies, and without a modicum of distance — I genuinely think they're funny. Or, more accurately, I genuinely like watching them even though I don't really think they're funny. There's something about these films that makes me feel comfortable. When I was growing up, we had a dresser drawer filled with these tapes, and my brother and I would watch them repeatedly. We didn't care that Folks! — a film in which Tom Selleck's character tries to kill his parents with their blessing — wasn't that clever; that's what we liked about it. The banality of Stakeout was pleasantly sedatitive. We liked the fact that we could recite verbatim the entire script for Who's Harry Crumb? (And do you know who Harry Crumb is? John Candy.)

We were raised in a mild, wooded suburb where movies of this demeanor fit right in. They were polite, breezy and safe. Our tiny local video store — my first paycheck job — reliably carried them. And I think even back then, my brother and I understood that these movies were mostly made by middle-aged, middle-of-the-road men like the ones who mowed their lawns in our neighborhood. Sort of like our dad. When the studios needed a film made competently and efficiently, they called one of these guys. As a result, these directors amassed profitable but largely forgettable filmographies, though many of them had a gem or two in there — Arthur Hiller, who directed Taking Care of Business, also did Love Story; the Stakeout guy made WarGames.

In fact, the very mediocrity of these movies was somehow reassuring in and of itself. The '80s encouraged a more intense lifestyle than ever — "Just Do It," and, "Be All You Can Be." Normal, non-athlete people began taking aerobics classes; my mom, who ran her own bookstore, started watching Hawaii Five-O from atop a new StairMaster. "Eye of the Tiger," the epitome of '80s motivation-rock, ascended the Billboard charts and nearly won an Academy Award. I vaguely remember being terrified by all this. I wasn't interested in such rabid ambition. I wanted a life like the films that I loved: predictable and mildly amusing.

My affection for these films stuck all the way through college. As my friends were turning to Bertolucci and Kurasawa, and getting high while watching 2001, I was getting stoned by myself and watching Collision Course, the story of two mismatched cops (Jay Leno and Pat Morita) who are made partners to hilarious effect. I'd sneak out of Hollywood Video with Brain Donors shoved deep into my messenger bag and hide it in my nightstand under the porn. I never dared let a crush see my stash of shame.

In my mid-twenties, I began to feel bolder. I started dropping hints. "Sorry I'm late. That cab ride was like Arnold Schwarzenegger learning to drive in Twins," I'd chuckle nervously, glancing to the side.

I don't remember the first guy I actually forced to watch one of these movies, but I do recall an early incident — one that made me realize how tough being a shitty-comedy lover was going to be. He was a pretentious doofus with thick-black-rimmed glasses and, as if parodying himself, a philosophy major. We were at his apartment, and he was cooking something exotic and spicy that required three burners. I'd been tasked with renting the night's movie, which was in the pocket of my Army jacket. It was — how do I say this? It starred Whoopi Goldberg. It costarred Ted Danson. It was Made in America.

Made in America is not a film you want anyone to know you've seen, least of all a philosophy major from the University of Maryland whom you're trying to have sex with. I knew, even as I was walking the box to the Blockbuster counter, that I was torpedoing the date. I could have rented a Cassavetes or a Schlesinger, but I couldn't stop myself. I was going to make him watch this, dammit.

Am I using these movies to sabotage my love life? I don't think so. There are more effective methods, and I've employed most of them. That's not what this compulsion feels like. It's an unsquelchable need to share the most humiliating side of myself. It's a misguided attempt at intimacy.

You should have seen the look on his face when I pulled that box out of my pocket. I think we sat on opposite ends of the couch for the duration of the film. He liked me, so he tried to guffaw his way through it for a while, but after thirty minutes I could tell he was dying. I wanted him to like this movie so badly, which, of course, was impossible. Which, of course, was why I wanted him to like it.

I think we went on one more date after that, but it was basically a goodbye date, a get-together so we could wordlessly acknowledge that this wasn't going to work. He'd gotten a glimpse of my dark side, probably briefly considered whether it was something he could live with, and then pictured introducing me to his philosopher friends and watching in horror as I let slip a She-Devil reference.

That's the most frustrating thing about this fatal dating flaw of mine — it's like the hairline crack on the Hubble telescope, undetectable until after the whole thing has launched. On the outside, I appear to be safely in the Wes Anderson/Sophia Coppola demo — people think they know what they're getting into. It's not until I adamantly insist we rent Once Upon a Crime (John Candy) that my crush realizes exactly what unspeakably tasteless scenario he's about to be embroiled in. And it's not until he catches me watching him out of the corner of my eye to make sure he's enjoying the movie that he starts to contemplate actually bolting for the door.

I've managed to carry on long-term relationships, despite my little secret. There are guys out there who are willing to tolerate my obsession, though I've yet to meet one who actually shares it. All these shitty '80s and '90s comedies — if only dating were so simple and predictable, we'd be living in a mildly amusing Carl Reiner paradise, assured of a feel-good conclusion.

©2007 Will Doig and Nerve.com