There is a “movie night” every Wednesday at the retirement home where I work that’s sometimes called “Rooney’s Request.”
“Rooney’s Request” is, in effect, a warning placed before the title of the movie on the events calendar.
This is because Mr. Rooney almost always requests something barely palatable to the rest of the community. No Country for Old Men is one I remember off the top of my head from last month. Oh, and Schindler’s List? That was a surprise to me, too.
By the looks of it, Rooney has packed a one-two-punch on the second and fourth Wednesday of this month.
On the 9th he’s requested Scarface. (I think Siskel and Ebert may have mentioned during their review of it back in the 80s that the F-word was used 147 times? Speak, Memory!)
And on the 23rd Pulp Fiction will be showing. Hahaha!
For any of this to sound transgressive or edgy, you’d have to know the general façade of propriety that hangs like a cloud over the place where I work. We have all kinds of people, but most of them are the type who wouldn’t want anyone to know that they had heard of—much less watched—a movie like Pulp Fiction.
I can’t imagine there won’t be major blow-back about Rooney’s Request for Tarantino.
Thus, despite the usual speed with which I leave the campus when my time is up for the day, on the 23rd I might stay and eat dinner with my residents, then sneak off to see a fine film right after.
Besides: I’m dying to see who shows up, who stays, and who high-tails it out of there as soon as creepy Amanda Plummer gets up on the table in the diner and shouts, “Any of you fucking pricks move, and I’ll execute every motherfucking last one of you!”