I finally got to see Into the Woods today with my girl. It opened on Christmas Day and, frankly, I’m surprised I was able to wait five whole days to buy a ticket. For those who have been paying attention around here, you know that the two things I hold dearest in this life (besides my family) are cheese and theater, specifically of the musical variety. There just aren’t enough movie musicals released these days. So I was more than ready.
Did I like it? Well, of course, I did. But then, I’m a sucker for this stuff. I love well-crafted lyrics. And Mr. Sondheim seldom disappoints. Plus the actors (some more than others) really weaved their storylines together well for me. Oh, and I should add that it didn’t hurt that Johnny Depp made a significant albeit brief appearance in the film.
But the most eye-opening part of the whole experience for me came at a moment most unexpected. For just as when I watch a play or read a book (yes, I DO read books), I often find myself identifying with at least one character in every movie I see. It needn’t always be someone in my age bracket or even a female for that matter.
But did it have to be the witch?
(NOTE: If/when Dave reads this post, he’s going to roar with laughter. “YOU??? Identify with the witch? Oh, come on. That’s just impossible!” he’ll say with more sarcasm than
Roseanne Barr … Chandler Bing … Willie Wonka. I should probably start thinking now about good comebacks.)
Anyway … when Meryl Streep sings a song called Stay With Me to her “adopted” daughter … well, let’s just say it cut a little close to the bone for me.
My daughter is 12. This holiday was already a hard one. Add that to the fact that my 15-year-old son just had his first DRIVING LESSON and … oh, just fit me for my damned straitjacket now. Black, please. If I’m going to look insane, I might as well also look skinny.
So I guess in the world of Into the Woods, I am the witch. Because, as weird as it might make me sound to so many parents counting the days ’til their kids leave for college, I’d sell my soul to freeze us all in time right now so nobody would ever leave the nest. (pregnant pause) Fine. You know what? As long as I’m making ridiculous, impossible, completely illogical requests, I’ll wish the clock back about three years and THEN freeze it. Before their teenage hormones kicked in and they learned to talk back. Might as well shoot for perfection, right?
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My two cents? Catch the movie when you can. It’s a good one. And when you see the witch, think of me. Frizzy blue hair and all.