Laughing at Old Jokes
One of my mother’s favorite movies is (and has been for as long as I can remember) Animal House. My simple appreciation for the film as a comedy has been transformed by my mother’s illness as the movie becomes even more significant.
Over the past year, my mother and I have watched Animal House at least once every few weeks. Usually, I play it while we make lunch. As the chords to the opening credits play, my mother snickers, “this movie,” and automatically sits down at the kitchen table to watch.
“If you want, we can watch something else,” she says almost immediately, feeling a pang of guilt about her new-found pleasure. The attention her eyes give the screen and the permanent smile on her face tell me that any thoughts of turning the movie off would be an injustice on the same level of kicking puppies for sport.
The characters’ antics capture her attention so entirely that sometimes watching her is more entertaining than the film. For most of the picture, she sits on the edge of her seat, leaning her elbows forward on the table and keeping her feet tucked under the chair. She chuckles at the golf balls landing in soup and causing chaos on the practice field. John Belushi’s incredulous, “They took the bar,” provokes louder expressions of mirth. During the raid on Dean Wormer’s office, my mother finally sits back in her chair and laughs so hard that the only noises she makes are frequent gasps for air.
When my father stops by on his break, he makes his usual comment about us watching the movie again. To this remark, my mother shrugs and replies innocently, “It’s just on the tv.”
Though she has seen this movie more times than she can count, Alzheimer’s has erased many of the details from her memory. Thus, each viewing is as funny as the first time, and her enduring enjoyment makes it the silver lining of this very dark cloud of a disease.
Over the past year, my mother and I have watched Animal House at least once every few weeks. Usually, I play it while we make lunch. As the chords to the opening credits play, my mother snickers, “this movie,” and automatically sits down at the kitchen table to watch.
“If you want, we can watch something else,” she says almost immediately, feeling a pang of guilt about her new-found pleasure. The attention her eyes give the screen and the permanent smile on her face tell me that any thoughts of turning the movie off would be an injustice on the same level of kicking puppies for sport.
The characters’ antics capture her attention so entirely that sometimes watching her is more entertaining than the film. For most of the picture, she sits on the edge of her seat, leaning her elbows forward on the table and keeping her feet tucked under the chair. She chuckles at the golf balls landing in soup and causing chaos on the practice field. John Belushi’s incredulous, “They took the bar,” provokes louder expressions of mirth. During the raid on Dean Wormer’s office, my mother finally sits back in her chair and laughs so hard that the only noises she makes are frequent gasps for air.
When my father stops by on his break, he makes his usual comment about us watching the movie again. To this remark, my mother shrugs and replies innocently, “It’s just on the tv.”
Though she has seen this movie more times than she can count, Alzheimer’s has erased many of the details from her memory. Thus, each viewing is as funny as the first time, and her enduring enjoyment makes it the silver lining of this very dark cloud of a disease.
Comments
Post a Comment