I was of course in line for “Prometheus” on Friday afternoon when a startling pattern emerged from the twisting, single-file queue before me. My fellow moviegoers were male, chubby and alone. They wore loose-fitting cargo pants or shorts. They were bald.
Some of the balds were bald like a cue ball is bald. Others had grown their hair to George-Costanza length. The majority of the balds, sadly, had that thin, whispy thing going, where the strands hang far from one another over a pale meadow of flesh stretched taut across the skull.
My own excitement for “Prometheus” has been borderline manic. Over recent months, I have occasionally said the word “Prometheus” out loud at random moments for no reason at all. (“Prometheus!”) Quieter instances at home have been jolted by me suddenly singing out loud to my dog about how truly wondrous this movie would be. I have talked about “Prometheus” constantly, and hopefully you’ve seen the two blog posts I wrote. (Here and here.)
Those blog posts lost quite a bit of nerd juice in the editing process (tales of old college professors and of watching “Aliens” for the first time 20 years ago on a black-and-white TV were scratched). And yet still they came out soaked.
I am bald.
What drives me and the rest of the bald brotherhood to be this way, so enthusiastic about “Prometheus” and “The Watchmen” and the Batman “Arkham” video games? Looking at all those other me’s in that darkened theater, I thought about my life and whether the things that bring me joy are sufficient and worthy.
I am lucky to have a happy, satisfying home life. I pray these men who joined me at the movie Friday do as well. Or, I would pray for them, if our makers weren’t so obviously mean and indifferent toward us.
So far as a review goes, how’s this? “Prometheus” was one of my favorite movies before I even saw it, and it was better than I’d hoped.