Chapstick

During one of my many periods of unemployment in Chicago, a friend of mine got me a gig handing out menus for his restaurant. The money would be surprisingly good, and I was fairly confident I had what it took to pass out pieces of paper to people, so I was actually kind of excited. It was December, and it had started to get really cold, so I bundled up before I headed downtown to the restaurant. When I arrived, I met the manager. He thanked me for helping, and I said it was my pleasure, knowing that the money I was getting would keep me from having to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner for like the fifth night in a row. He handed me the menus, an apron, and one of those horrible, foot-high chef hats. The thought of the sweet KFC boneless wings I would soon be eating helped me get over the ridiculous costume, and I started to put the apron on. The manger stopped me and said something like, “You know, I really think the coat is going to take away from the outfit.” Not wanting to offend, I took off my coat and hoody, but left on my sweater, thermal long-sleeve shirt, regular long-sleeve shirt, and gloves. They, however, would not be enough. As soon as I stepped outside, I was greeted by an icy gust of lakefront wind. I put on my gloves, but they were too stiff to allow me to properly handle the menus, so I went for the “Thriller” look, sacrificing my right hand to the elements in the process. As I handed out menus to passers-by who went out of their way to avoid me, the temperature started to drop. Now, you would think that standing outside in the freezing cold while wearing a little chef’s uniform would be payment enough for whatever past sins I had committed, but oh, no. God and Chicago, being the total dicks that they are, decided it was time to start snowing. And this wasn’t one of those oh-look-how-pretty-the-snow-is-what-a-beautiful-white-blanket-it’s-covering-the-Earth-in kind of snows that Southerners picture in their naïve, warm little brains. This was a the-wind-is-35mph-and-I-would-cry-if-my-eyes-weren’t-frozen-shut kind of snow. I struggled mightily to continue working, but the wind pushed me down the street to a warm coffee shop where the menus accidentally fell into a trashcan, and where I accidentally hung out for an hour. When I finally returned to the restaurant, they thanked me for braving the storm. I felt guilty for about two seconds, and then grabbed my money, my hoody, and my coat, and I left. On the train ride home, I reached my frozen right hand into my coat pocket to retrieve my generic lip balm (couldn’t splurge on the good stuff) in hope of finding some wind burn relief. Then, I decided to block out the events of the day for as long as I lived. It actually worked pretty well, because after I spent the money, I didn’t really think about the chef suit-blizzard incident until years later when I was watching The Mothman Prophecies.

The Mothman Prophecies (based on true events)
My mom loves movies as much as I do, and she will see pretty much anything that comes out as long as it isn’t too violent and there is little or no talk of sex. When she sees a movie she likes she waits until it comes out on DVD, buys it, and then sends it to me. This has allowed me to amass a rather strange film collection. Within a period of a few months, I once received The Count of Monte Cristo, two Ashley Judd movies, and a DeNiro piece that nobody’s ever heard of. Mothman is one of my mom movies. She thought I would like it, and she was right, but we’ll get to that later.

In Mothman, Richard Gere (one of my mom’s favorites) is a hotshot reporter for the Washington Post. He and his lovely wife (Debra Messing, looking almost as good as she did on “Ned and Stacey”) close on a beautiful house in Georgetown. On their way home from the closing they sit at a red light on a deserted road, and you just know they’re going to get in a wreck, and they do, but not before Messing sees a moth-type beast flying at the windshield. Gere is fine, but while in the hospital for her injuries, Messing finds out she has a rare brain tumor, starts drawing creepy images, and dies.

Two Years Later. Gere, still reeling from the death of his wife, is heading to Richmond, VA to do a story on a potential presidential candidate. His car breaks down, and he goes to a house for help, but instead is greeted by a man carrying a shotgun. The man, Gordon, claims that Gere has appeared at the house at the same exact time for the past three nights. Laura Linney then shows up doing an accent that sounds a lot like the one my friend did when she played Shelby in a 10th grade student-directed production of Steel Magnolias. Linney is a cop, and she tries to clear things up. She gives Gere a lift to a motel, and we learn that he has somehow ended up in a small town on the West Virginia/Ohio border which, for you geography buffs, is not very close to Richmond at all. (Spooooky.) Soon, Gordon starts hearing a voice that says things like “99 die in Denver,” and those things, those prophecies if you will, come true. Gere and Linney try to figure out what is going on, but Gere gets in too deep. One night, he receives a phone call from the voice that has spoken to Gordon, and the greatest scene in the film occurs. First, the voice says its name is Indred Cold. Yep. That's the name. Cold knows everything about Gere down to what he is doing that very minute like where he is hiding his shoes and what lines he's looking at in a book. To truly test Cold, Gere asks. “What do I have in my hand?” and Indred replies in the most menacing whisper you can possibly imagine, “Chapstick.” I cannot explain to you how absurd this part is. It is possibly the most bizarre product placement/misguided moment of terror ever committed to film. Seriously, you have to see it.

After that, Gere goes to frigid Chicago to track down an expert who talks a lot but doesn’t give us a damn clue as to what is going on. He’s all “entities and energies” and whatnot. Gere returns to West Virginia, and bonds more with Linney. Then, Gordon dies, and Messing starts appearing around town. Gere gets a note from Indred Cold saying that Messing (his dead wife, mind you) will contact him in his Georgetown home that Saturday (Christmas Eve) at noon. Gere leaves WV, goes home, and waits. Linney calls and gives the requisite your-wife-is-dead-and-that-weird-creepy-voice-is-lying-and-you-should-spend-Christmas-with-me speech. Gere hangs up, the clock clicks noon, the phone rings, and…Gere pulls it out of the wall. Broken, the phone rings again, and…Gere walks out the door. Come on! You're telling me that a mothman tells you your dead wife is going to call at noon, and you don’t even pick up the phone? That’s bullshit, my friends, that is bullshit!

Movie’s over, right? He turned his back on the beast and now he can live a peaceful, happy life or whatever. Nope. When he gets back to West Virginia, there is a traffic jam on a bridge. The bridge collapses, casting Linney and others into the river along with a bunch of Christmas presents. This actually has to do with a dream Linney talks about early in the movie, but I just can’t even get into all that right now. Gere jumps in and saves Linney, and they share one of those man-this-was-weird-maybe-we-should-start-a-life-together looks. The credits roll, and the eerie/sexy TOMANDANDY score takes us out.

Honestly, Mothman Prophecies can be quite creepy at times. I’m not afraid to admit I got chills more than once while watching. The problem with the movie is that it makes absolutely no sense at all, and it doesn’t bother to even address any of the questions it raises. However, I’m still giving it 3-Griecos (see ratings). It’s pretty entertaining, and the “Chapstick” scene is just awesome. Oh, by the way, if Indred Cold is a reference that I don’t get or if it's some sort of anagram, please let me know, because if that’s all you got for an 8-foot tall moth-demon, you have failed. And I don’t care if that is the name from the “true events.” Change it. This is Hollywood, damnit.

Ratings

1-Grieco: There’s probably a re-run of "Full House on". Watch that instead.

2-Griecos: Washed-up stars, watered-down action, and my friends are at work. What the hell.

3-Griecos: Bad religious symbolism abounds and the gunplay is damn near balletic. My Friday night is looking up.

4-Griecos: If Looks Could Kill. All I’m sayin’.

**If ever I should come across a film that rates 0-Griecos, may God have mercy on your soul.