“Jarhead” review, part 1
by V.E. on October 28th, 2009
filed under personal, recap/review, writing
First time I saw Jarhead (IMDb), it was in a theatre in Manhattan with Bennett and his mother and father. I think his brother was there, too, but I don’t remember for sure. The downtown 1 train was closed for repairs (Ben’s parents own an apartment on the Upper West Side) and we caught a free bus all the way to 42nd Street to catch a movie at one of the theatres there. There’s an AMC and a Regal right across the street from each other on 42nd between 7th and 8th Avenues. I think we went to the Regal, but I’m partial to Regal theatres generally, and I don’t really remember. I wore these really cute boots—beige with tan straps and three-inch heels—and a skirt; Bennett’s dad, Jeff, paid for everything, and I was polite and grateful.
After running for more than one bus in the drizzly rain in my boots, my hand slipping out of Bennett’s in his hurry, I was really glad to sit down because I could feel my feet bleeding in my boots. I was fine, so long as I was sitting down, and the movie was… good, but not something to write home about. Upon the movie’s end, we all stood and headed down to the street to catch the uptown subway. Out in the rain, Jeff said, “I think I have a crush on Jake Gyllenhaal” (who plays Anthony Swofford, the main character). I laughed with the rest of the family, but my toes were not happy. I was half afraid to take the damn boots off.
When we got to the subway platform out of the rain, I stood on one foot, then the other, in order to take some pressure off my toes and the ball of each foot. Bennett looked me over and asked, “You okay?”
I said, “Yeah. Feet hurt, that’s all.”
He smirked, “Shouldn’t wear boots like that, V.”
I rolled my eyes, “I know; I wasn’t complaining.”
He took my hand anyway and, when I nodded, proceeded to press the webbing between my thumb and forefinger with the knuckles of his thumb and forefinger. Usually, the action was to ward off a headache, but I gasped at the pain and it was effective in that instance, too—centered the pain elsewhere. The train arrived, and we stepped into one of the cars are were whisked uptown.
We arrived back at his parent’s apartment and I went to his bedroom, pulled off my boots, and dumped them on the floor in favor of hissing and curling into a fetal position in his bed.
Bennett came in behind me, “V, what are you—oh my god, I had no idea. Here, let me clean you up and bandage your feet. Jesus, woman, I didn’t know it was this bad; I thought you were just complaining.”
My feet were bloody; my socks, ruined. He peeled them off carefully, wary of any skin clinging to them, and then took a clean washcloth and wiped my feet with warm water. As he went back into the bathroom to get some anti-bacterial soap, I related the words he’d spoken to me a few days before—”We must suffer to be beautiful”—and he scoffed, but I could tell he believed it, too.
“Yeah, women more than men, though,” he replied, gently cleaning my blisters. He tossed the bloodied rag into the bathroom sink and went searching for the first-aid kit. When he returned, he was carrying the entire thing, as if he wasn’t sure how much of the cream or how many bandages he’d actually have to use.
“Shit, Vi, I really didn’t know how bad it was; I wouldn’t have teased you,” he said, his movements on auto-pilot, his eyes remiss.
“You really don’t have to—”
“Let me. I feel bad, okay?” he interrupted me, and I relented.
Later, one of his friends bounded into the room to find me lying half way under his comforter in only my underwear. I think the friend was half shocked that I didn’t move to cover myself up, and when he saw my feet, he retreated to Bennett for an explanation. I was left alone that night, after that.
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Oh, wait. Did you want an actual review?
[...] the movie is based on a book of the same name, which I have not read, and it’s not on my “Must [...]