Our passions are deeply personal things. We love something because we love it; it might be a horrible TV sitcom, or a banal Japanese pop record. We don't have to justify it to anyone. It simply gets us off, and that's that. But sometimes one runs the risk of sharing a deeply-held passion with an outsider, and worlds collide. Case in point: Albert Brook's Modern Romance.
Do you understand how much I love Modern Romance? Do you?! We had a friend staying at the house and there we were, sans Netflix envelopes or anything decent on-demand. I mean, what...we're gonna talk or play games or what not? We needed a film! So I rifled through my very small but choice collection of DVD's and came up with Modern Romance. I only own films that I can watch on a yearly basis, you see, and I watch that film every ding-dong year.
I was really excited. This friend - let's call him Jeff - is a wicked cynic with a sharp tongue. And he was a Modern Romance virgin. He liked Albert Brooks but had somehow missed Modern Romance. Oh man! I threw the DVD into the player and let 'er rip.
Oh, wait till you see the scene when he gets all fucked-up on Valium, I said. You'll die! So we waited and watched. Nothing. OK, but what about the jogging scene ("1,2,3, I don't even miss her") Flatline. Crickets. It rocked me, reader. Did I have rotten taste in films? As I watched the film with the eyes of an intitiate, I began to realize: It really wasn't that good. Flat in a lot of places. Falls apart entirely in the second hour.
And this is why you must be careful to guard your passions and defend them to the death. Because sometimes they aren't really that good.