Double Dating With My Parents, Alan Ritchson, And Jason Statham
(The Joys Of Fictional Violence)
Together as a family, Mom, Dad, Alicia, and I decide to watch Reacher Season One.
From the comfort of my parents’ couch, the series takes us to Margrave, Georgia where something’s rotten in the State of Peaches. We are quickly introduced to a mountain of a man, the titular character, Jack Reacher, who is promptly arrested for murder, sent to prison, kills multiple assassins without breaking a sweat, and then—with an irresistible mix of iron-hard confidence and boy-next-door charm—he befriends the two members of the local police force who aren’t corrupt. The producers find ways for the beyond buff Alan Ritchson to appear shirtless on screen. His tremendous muscles make him look like a swollen Hercules. He is eternally several steps ahead of everyone; deploys lots of silly Dad-friendly humor; manages to take a shower with the blonde female lead—the winning Willa Fitzgerald—before the season is even half over; has highly trained military friends who emerge when necessary; and proves to be basically un-killable as he absorbs extreme violence like it’s the sun and he’s sunbathing in the tropics while sipping a piña colada from a coconut.
We all love this type of programming, but my father really loves it. He literally applauds all of the above; intermittently says, “Yes!” as if to cheer on Reacher through the TV screen; and Dad just comes alive in a way that I seldom see when he and I aren’t watching violent programming.
At the end of the first season, one of Reacher’s sidekicks, Malcolm Goodwin’s Oscar Finlay—the glasses-and-tweed-suit-wearing moral conscience and scene-stealer of the show—literally guillotines a bad guy in half with an industrial machine, which releases squeals of delight from my father. The violence also thrills Alicia, Mom, and me, as well as people watching Reacher all over the globe. But as Alzheimer’s often brings my father down, I make a note of Dad’s gleeful reaction and vow to find ways to replicate it.
“That was a good one!” I say when the last episode concludes.
“What’s that guy’s name again?” my father asks.
“Reacher,” I say.
“Reacher!” Dad repeats and then walks back to his bedroom, occasionally shaking his fist in the air and triumphantly saying, “Reacher!” again.
So I organize a trip to the movies—a double date, so to speak—for my parents, Alicia, and me.
The last time I had taken my father to the movies, we went to see Ridley Scott’s Napoleon, which was pretty much the opposite of Reacher. Joaquin Phoenix plays the tiniest French Emperor as pathetically irredeemable. The film is dark and heavy and depressing as can be. What made things worse was that my mother wasn’t there, as she was visiting my nephews in Pennsylvania. I was Dad-sitting. And the whole Mom-not-being around aspect of the week really threw Dad’s Alzheimer’s for a loop.
He had wanted to see Napoleon. Had specifically requested that we go. But on the way to the movies he started to get confused about where my mother was. When Alicia and I told him Mom was in Pennsylvania, Dad became furious. Alzheimer’s convinced him that he was getting divorced and no amount of reassuring could bring him back to reality. At one point, he even threatened to get out of the car while we were doing sixty on the highway.
Popcorn and soda and movie magic relaxed him some. There was a preview for a Mark Walhberg film where he’s competing in a multi-day Dominican Republic adventure race and befriends a stray dog who teaches him life lessons. When Dad leaned over and said, “I want to see that one!” I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought we were in the clear.
But about halfway through the film, Dad started looking around and then panicked.
“Where’s your mother?” he asked.
When I explained once again that she was in Pennsylvania, Dad tried to lower his footrest, but couldn’t figure out the buttons. Then he started to loudly whisper, “I have to get out of this place! Get me out of here!” People began watching us instead of the movie. As I whispered in my father’s ear, trying to calm him down, I was surprised and touched by the sympathetic glances I got from the elderly people sitting near us. It was a Saturday matinee crowd who seemed to easily suss out what was happening.
But I burned with shame anyway.
Was the shame a result of my inability to keep my father pleased? Was I embarrassed of his disease? Or was it simply his breach of proper movie-watching etiquette? I’m not sure I could have told you in the moment. But as Alicia and I weren’t particularly enjoying the film, we were happy enough to take Dad home and told him so.
The problem was this: we were all seated in reclining chairs. When Dad finally got his feet on the ground, he looked to his left and right, saw nothing but the legs of strangers blocking his way, and froze.
“We can ask them to make room,” I explained. “They’ll move. We can go.”
But he loudly shushed me and then sat through the remainder of the movie white knuckling it. I prayed he didn’t start screaming or have a heart attack. His anxiety oozed over the armrest and began to cover me. Soon, it felt like we were both drowning at the bottom of the deepest ocean and there was nothing I could do about it, except watch Joaquin Phoenix frown in a ridiculous hat.
At the end of the film, when our neighbors retracted their reclining seats, my father shot out of the theater like one of Napoleon’s cannonballs. Outside, Dad was furious. He didn’t understand why my mother wasn't with us. He couldn’t wrap his mind around what was happening. He thought he was in the middle of an ugly divorce. He thought my mother had taken all of his money. It took a big effort to get him into our car and a lot of coaxing to keep him in it. He wasn’t right for the rest of the week, but became sweet as a puppy the second my mother returned.
After we complete Reacher Season One, Alicia sees that Jason Statham has a film out called The Beekeeper, which looks right up Dad’s alley. When I ask my father if he wants to see it, he says, “It’s about bees?”
So I explain that this beekeeper kicks a ton of ass.
“Like Steven Seagal?” Dad says.
I smile and say, “Even better than Steven Seagal.”
“No one is better than Steven Seagal at beating up bad guys,” Dad says. “But if your mother’s going, I’ll go to the movies.”
When I summarize the movie plot for Mom, she says, “Oh, brother,” and then suggests I take Dad without her.
Remembering what happened the last time I took Dad to the movies without Mom, I counter, saying Dad will love it and it’s a night out for all of us. I remind her that she’s been complaining about being stuck inside her house too much and she finally says, “Okay, let’s go to the movies.”
On a Thursday night, my parents walk the two minutes to our house and then I drive everyone to the Cinemark in Bluffton, which is about forty minutes away. My parents sit in the backseat of the RAV4 and Alicia rides shotgun. It’s remarkable how different the taking-Dad-to-the-movies experience is with Mom there. My father seems calm and even joyful.
At the Cinemark, we all get popcorn and drinks and then recline in our heated seats. We’re arranged man, woman, man, woman so that my mother is in between Dad and me. Up on the screen, the lovely Maria Menounos eases us through the pre-movie commercials. Then they play us ten billion previews, one of which happens to be for that aforementioned Mark Wahlberg dog movie. My father looks over and says, “I want to see that one,” to which I say, “We definitely will!”
The Beekeeper begins with Jason Statham in a white beekeeper uniform. He is literally a beekeeper who gives jars of honey to neighbors, but he is also a retired badass super agent “Beekeeper” who can kill pretty much anyone anywhere while making timely wisecracks and remaining impervious to pain. The movie is as ridiculous as it is entertaining and I find myself yelling out, “Ha!” every time the beekeeper metaphor is torturously over-explained, which is about every fifteen minutes. The violence is Tom-and-Jerry-level silly and the villains are equally cartoonish. What is Jeremy Irons doing in this film? I ask often. And Jason Statham is box-office gold. It’s a terrifically fun night out munching popcorn.
But what I enjoy most is watching my parents.
Every so often my father will look over to make sure my mother is still with him and I see her patting his arm and whispering into his ear, reassuring him in the exact wifely way he so wanted during our failed Napoleon adventure. And with each bad guy Statham kills in ever-increasingly creative ways, my father’s eyes grow wide. His smiles are boyish. Sometimes his fist will jump up out of his lap and he’ll shake it in the air as if to cheer on our hero, the beekeeper.
There’s a lot of talk about what happens when hives get out of control and systems need to be reset. I know my father isn’t thinking about how any of that could apply to his Alzheimer’s—his brain being a rogue hive with confused bee equivalents tangling and clumping proteins into plaque and killing neurons—but I am. If only Jason Statham got pissed off enough at my father’s disease, maybe he’d aim all of his surefire wit and charm and cunning and super strength and movie magic at whatever’s going on in my father’s skull.
But then I realize that’s exactly what Jason Statham is doing—at least for the one hour and forty-five minutes we watch his movie.
Every time I look over at my father during the The Beekeeper, he’s smiling, which makes me smile.
On the way out of the theater, Mom says, “You know what? That wasn’t so bad.”
“Totally. Kicked. Ass,” Alicia adds.
“I think that guy might be a little better than Steven Seagal,” Dad says. “Just a little bit.”
“So you enjoyed it?” I say.
“Do you think that guy…”
“Jason Statham,” I say.
“Could he actually beat Steven Seagal in a fight?” Dad asks, seriously pondering the question.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“I think he maybe could, because he was really good in that movie,” Dad says, and I drink in the boyish excitement in his voice.
Dad and I hit the restroom and when we come out, a look of panic flashes across his face. “Where’s Mom?” he asks. I tell him she’s just in the ladies’ room and will be out soon. When she appears as promised, he instantly relaxes.
On the ride home, Alicia, Mom, and I discuss the ridiculousness of the film, pointing out the plot holes, and all the ways it panders to we nostalgic Gen Xers and Baby Boomers.
Dad often gets tired at night and it’s way past his bedtime, but as we pull up to my parents’ house, my father wistfully says, “You know, there’s really just something about a movie where everyone gets killed.”
We all take a moment to absorb that statement.
Then Mom says, “Reacher Season Two?” and Alicia and I say, “Yes!”
As Alicia and I wait in the RAV4 to make sure my parents get into their house safely, I take my wife’s hand in mine. Mom and Dad disappear behind their front door and then Alicia and I drive the thirty seconds to our home, where our intrepid border terrier, Kingsly, attacks us with tongue licks and tail wags.
PS - Did you read the March 6th post? I Tell More Than I Probably Should On Substack (Community For Introverts)
"Soon, it felt like we were both drowning at the bottom of the deepest ocean and there was nothing I could do about it, except watch Joaquin Phoenix frown in a ridiculous hat." This sentence is everything.
My Mom and I thank you so much for sharing your stories and struggles with Alzheimer's. May the Beekeeper kick this disease's ass back to hell!
❤️