Sometimes, you can judge a book by its cover–as long as it’s the back cover, that is. Here’s how it works: count the number of times you look at the author’s picture on the back of the book jacket while reading it; the more times you look, the worse the book is (of course, as I write this I’m picturing 15,000 Flagstaff Live readers glancing up to the photo at the top of my column).
Likewise, the number of times you pick up the Netflix sleeve and reread the plot synopsis while you’re still watching the movie is often a good clue as to how bad the movie really is. When it comes to movies that are still in the theaters, though, there has never been an equivalent method; there is no “book jacket test.” Or, at least, there hadn’t been one, before my son, Clyde, came along. Because now, when you want to know how good (or at least how entertaining) a movie is, it’s simple: just take Clyde to the theater with you, and you can be sure that he will give it the piss test.
No, this doesn’t mean that he will be able to tell you whether or not the movie makers were on drugs when they made the film (although, that, too, is often a good test of quality); but rather that you will be able to count the number of times during the movie that Clyde needs to get up and pee.
For example: during the most recent installment in the Indiana Jones franchise (Indiana Jones and the File Cabinet of Recycled Scripts), Clyde got up to use the facilities no less than seven times. (I say “use the facilities” not out of politeness, but rather out of correctness: not even a dog visiting a new neighborhood could have had enough urine to actually go “pee” each time that Clyde said he needed to “go;” obviously these trips involved things beyond the actual urination process such as: playing with the automated hand dryers, fiddling with the bathroom vending machines, and checking to see whether or not there was anything interesting happening in the lobby.)
One advantage to the “Clyde Piss Test” is that–unlike the book jacket test, which just tells you that the book is lame–Clyde’s test actually pinpoints where, exactly, things fall apart. (He went five times during his viewing of Peter Jackson’s remake of King Kong, but since these trips all happened during the first 45 minutes of the movie, it was clear that his bladder was saying “Too much Jack Black.”).
Things were different when his sister, Clementine was his age: when she was bored with a movie she would simply turn to whoever was with her and say: “I’m done.” It didn’t matter whether we were in the final five minutes of the movie, or passing out the popcorn during the opening credits ; when she was done, she was done. Sometimes this was exasperating (I never did get to find out whether or not the chickens made their escape in Chicken Run), but for the most part, it was a blessing. (When she declared she was “done” with Racing Stripes I practically jumped up and started doing a touchdown dance).
Not so, however, with Clyde: when he’s “done” he only rescues himself; I’m left sitting alone in the movie theater, literally holding the bag (of popcorn). By the time I clue in and decide it’s time to go look for him (and leave) he slides back into his seat, seemingly happy as can be to be watching the movie again. Until, of course, it’s time for him to go “pee” once more.
I just hope, for the sake of our environment, that the day never comes when he has to sit through a “chick flick.” I don’t think our water supply could take it.