Why I Hate Movies

Last night we went to see Jurassic World.  The Ravishing Mrs. TB has looking forward to this movie for something like 15 years and Na Clann like Chris Pratt.  As for myself, I have not been to see a film near it's release date since the original Hobbit in 2012 so it was my triennial viewing.
The movie, at least from a standard point of view, was entertaining.  It attempted to reconnect with the original themes of the movie and book (man's use of science, the ultimate introduction of "Non-native Species" into an ecosystem, the importance of family) in perhaps not quite as powerful a way as the first one but definitely better than the two sequels.  Chris Pratt does well with his character, which is a sort of nondescript ex-SEAL animal trainer (I guess?  Never really explained).  The dinosaurs are grand of course - CGI has come a long way since 1992.

And yet, leaving the movie, I found myself depressed.

Depressed because the glory of the cinema seems to overwhelm the rather muted shades of my own life.

Let us be honest:  a well made movie submerges us in the plot (as does a book), drawing us into the characters and situations.  In a well crafted one, we leave almost like we are taking leave of a vacation destination which, having arrived at, we never intended to depart from.  And upon departure, we arrive back a our real lives, which are not nearly so interesting or vibrant compared to what we have just experienced.

I understand:  It is a movie.  And I have enough clarity of mind to understand that such things are fantasies - and yes, I can distinguish between the two.  Yet the sense of seeing the lives of characters, especially characters which you find your spouse and children swooning for out of the corner of your eyes, makes the comparison - even if imaginary - that much more painful.

I am not an ex-anything, let alone a trainer of dangerous carnivores.  I cannot jump or tumble and am not a crack shot.  I do not live on some tropical island in a trailer or ride a motorcycle or do any of 50 manly things I witnessed last night.  In my case, the rather sad reality is I push papers for a living.  My trailer on a tropical island is a house in suburbs that needs a new fence and better lawn care.  My uber-cool transport is a  5 year old car with 1 year left to pay and a cracked windshield.  And sadly enough, the only swooning that seems to go on are the rabbits who are always happy to see me.

Again, I understand - movies are fantasy and no-one really lives that way.  But the implication that such a thing could exist against the stark reality of what life seems to be is what depresses me so much - the realization that such "perfect" characteristics are not really mine and (given the remaining time frame) not likely to ever be mine.

And thus, why I hate movies:  They provoke flights of fantasy that only result in making an otherwise perfectly reasonable life appear all the more shabby because it fails to evoke excitement and vibrancy that a society pursuing pleasure and self-actualization above all else has somehow "convinced" us that we deserve.