Last night, prior to falling asleep in the middle of "The War," I went over to Alex and Ben's for dim sum and Mrs. Doubtfire. The boys had swung by Goodwill, where Ben purchased several VHS cassettes for $1.
And who can say no to Mrs. Doubtfire? Anyone growing up round these parts has a collection of nostaligic, mid-90's, locally filmed favorites. I'm partial to So I Married an Axe Murderer, but that might cost more than a buck.
Perhaps watching this movie for the first time in decades, I finally noticed the immense stupidity of the concept. It was driving me nuts. How do you not recognize your own husband and father in mild-drag?
It's the same thing that always bugged me about Inspector Gadget. It's your own dog, dipshit. Not a Cold War Era spy.
Anyway, Ben's brilliant solution to the obvious conundrum of "You can't be an old British lady forever" was that Robin Williams' character, Daniel Hillard simply have Mrs. Doubtfire die in some kind of evidence-less accident.
"Like a bomb."
"That's a really realistic plan, Ben."
"Well, he's going to get his kids back, now that he's got the great TV gig, so the courts will award him custody and he won't need to be a maid anymore."
"Then he just fakes a bombing 'accident', thus freeing us all of Euphegnia Doubtfire."
"Actually," my brother chimed in, "That'd make it a better movie."
"It's more realistic than pretending to be your own, foreign sister by covering yourself in frosting."
I left just before the farcical ending took place.
"I can't stand the restaurant scene."
"Yeah, the last part of this movie sucks."
Wise critique, really. After all, once Harvey Fierstein and Scott Capurro's scenes are over, there's really no point...