Last night, my mother and I attended The Kite Runner on the closing night of the Mill Valley Film Festival. The theater was PACKED, and as a townie, I found myself surrounded by pretty much every familiar face in town, including the friend who witnessed my physical expulsion from the Opening Night Party.
"A travesty!" He screamed over the masses. "A goddamn disgrace!"
The movie started late, but it was well worth it as the author, screenwriter and star were all in attendance for introductions before the film and Q&A after. As pretty much the only retard in the room who didn't read the book, I had no idea what to expect and didn't really see what the big deal was. You'd think Oprah was in the house, the place was so abuzz.
When the author introduced the main actor, he said, "This is Khallid Abdalla, and he IS Amir."
200 well-read people gasped.
Oh god. This better not be like The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants or some shit. All I knew was that some kid gets raped and I wasn't into watching that, much less with my mother sucking down Diet Coke 2 inches away.
The movie began, and before I get to my main point of today's post, I must point out that The Kite Runner is one of the most amazing films I've ever seen in my life.
More importantly, Amir is hot.
Suddenly, something occurred to me.
I leaned over to my mother. "Um, that actor. Amir. The guy standing about 15 feet away."
"He was one of the terrorists in Flight 93."
I'll point out that when our precious Khalid was stabbing pilots and praising Allah as he downed a jet bound for SFO, I was not thinking to myself, "Ding Dong, Ziad Jarrah." However, all smoldering and running around Afghanistan trying to rescue some kid, I was smitten.
Then I felt like a shitty American racist for not finding someone hot just because he was a terrorist.
Because, seriously. This guy is really foxy in a "Let's stay home and read books with big words in them" kind of way.
Which is why, when the movie and Q&A ended, in which Khalid was appallingly profound and brilliant and sexy, I tried to track his fine ass down and say something smart, like, "I loved you in Flight 93!"
But the masses of Kite Runner fanatics kicked me to the curb, where I found my mother, pushed our way past all the TV cameras and went to dinner.
I was almost hoping Khalid would show up, quietly sitting at the bar in his perfect black suit just waiting for someone to come up and ask him questions about the Taliban, artistic responsibility and whether our wedding would be a traditional Muslim/Catholic ceremony or something a little more Hollywood.
Alas, Khalid probably got to go to the big party and didn't give a shit about talking to some freak who's seen Flight 93 eight times. I resigned myself to my Gibson and my mother, but silently wondered just how long Khalid would be in town and whether or not he reads blogs...