Saturday Matinee

Saturday afternoon and the Mrs is curled up on the sofa watching a film. That can only mean one thing: crap made-for-American-TV chick flick. I don’t know what the attraction is but she seems to have an insatiable appetite for the genre. Each film has the same formula:

1. Must be set in Americana suburbia where the house/street is pristine and the interior of the house is immaculately tidy without a single thing out of place.

2. The women must walk around the house in full dress, hair done and fully accessorised (including shoes- everyone must wear shoes in the house).

3. One of the 3 main female characters must have some sort of incurable disease (preferably a form of cancer men don’t usually contract).

4. Every supposed blood relative of the main female character bears no family resemblance.

5. The male characters must be evil, uncaring bastards who couldn’t possibly understand the storm of emotions the woman/women are feeling.

6. There will, however, be one redeeming male character who is uber-sensitive. It is likely he will have an overtly masculine job or hobby such as carpentry. This makes him rugged but in touch with his feminine side which (I assume) is the holy-grail to women who watch this stuff.

7. There must be one or more saccharinely sweet child character. If it is a boy, he must have a pudding-basin hair cut and be called either Jake/Cody or a first name that sounds like it should be a surname e.g. Mason, Hunter, Miller, Turner.

8. If it is a young girl character, she is likely to have a hearing impairment and have some sort of artistic talent. The girl character must have the name of a Western American state e.g. Dakota, Montana, Oregon. Her hair must be perpetually in plaits or held back with an Alice band. The only time this can be undone is the scene where the main female character is sitting with her on the bed, brushing her hair as she silently ponders men’s insensitivity and the impact it is having on her child.

9. The child character will have a four word script: I love you Mommy.

10. The women in the film don’t watch TV or listen to the radio or play games online. They spend all their time sitting on the sofa (with shoes on) drinking coffee from oversize mugs. Preferably these mugs are held with two hands to reinforce the notion of cosiness. (* note, the TV or radio will be switched on at some point, most likely as she is serving breakfast to the family, but only long enough to hear a news report about some evil perpetuated by one of the uncaring male characters. At this point, the TV/radio will be switched off).

11. There must be one scene where the woman drives a family saloon car, SUV or preferably, station wagon, through the leafy suburban streets to a soundtrack of slow, simple piano music. Purists might insist that the leaves on the trees are in full autumnal colour.

12. At some point the main female character will have to make a decision. This is the point at which one of the other female characters shows her true colours as a bitch. The mandatory argument scene between the two women must involve the line, “This is my family we are talking about.”

13. The uncaring male must get his come-uppance. It is likely this will involve him being led to a police car in handcuffs whilst the female character holds her child/ren in her arms and looks on defiantly from the front porch.

14. The disease is incurable.

15. The name of the film: Not With My Children or She Fought Alone, Home for Christmas or some variation of the same.

Comedy chick flicks are only slightly better but they still have their own formula, as this clip proves: 

But this blog is not just about personal Catharsis, dear readers. On this man-hatin' and rainy Saturday I offer you the following clip from the funniest film ever made which will hopefully provide a laugh. 




Strangely enough, Monty Python members felt that woman struggled to be funny on screen. That is why they always played the female parts themselves. However, and in closing, here is proof they were most certainly wrong. 








Keep the Faith, 


The Head