It started slow. The first hour was obviously a character-building one, but we neither understood nor cared. We were just waiting for that sudden, frightful moment the monster would jump out. At that time, plot wouldn’t matter. And character wouldn’t matter. N++B – because all the victims would taste the same.
My three sisters and I were middle school kids on this particular evening. Our parents went out to dinner with another couple who dropped off their three daughters to stay with us. It was suddenly a latchkey evening, but the specter of boredom was quickly resolved when I glanced through the TV Guide and hit pure sixth-grader gold – a monster movie! And it was one that none of us had seen before. The movie’s title said it all, and my only job was to sell the idea. It was a no-brainer, but I still played it up with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, explaining scenes in advance by making up stories on the fly. I sold every one, and we all gathered around the TV for an old black and white fright flick: Night of the Iguana.
It was the seventies – an age where boys were taught the essential elements of respectable manhood: leadership, confidence, and strength of character. As the only boy in the room and one of the oldest kids, I felt a responsibility to exercise that leadership and so I set the evening’s agenda. I staked my reputation on smartly choosing the perfect selection. And at the end of the evening, I would be the strong, brave one, calming everyone’s fears.
We were too young to comprehend plot lines of moral crises and steamy romances. The playwright was a guy named Tennessee Williams, but he might as well have been Tennessee Tuxedo. The subliminal romantic undertones in the dialog between Richard Burton and Ava Gardner went WHOOSH! right over our puerile little heads. The droning drivel served only one purpose – to lull us into complacency in order to set up the surprise attack. We were focused like lasers on the lush tropical vegetation rustling behind them, just waiting for that iguana to leap out and gobble them up.
So we waited. And waited. About a half-hour into the movie, I was losing the audience and started giving pep talks.
“Just stick with it, guys! Be patient. It’ll be any minute.” I promised them an iguana, and by golly, they would get an iguana.
It was toward the end of the movie that our parents walked through the door to find a bunch of quiet, well-behaved kids gathered intently around the TV watching a sophisticated play. My mom seemed to recognize the movie and her jaw dropped.
“Why are you watching… THIS?” she exclaimed.
We didn’t dare take our eyes off the screen for a second as I waved her off and said, “Shhhh!”
When the end credits started to roll, it was apparent that the movie failed to deliver. The sight of us children watching it was no doubt a surreal spectacle and our parents must have left them stunned to see us captivated by a story of vice, virtue, and philosophical dilemma. As the visiting girls left with their parents, they taunted me with an endless chant that faded as they walked out the door. “EeeGWANahhhh! EeeGWANahhhh! EeeGWANahhhh!”
I deserved that.
For a brief moment, I can only imagine that my parents must have thought I was an old soul, wise beyond my years. But if that was true, it was certainly shattered when I grumbled, “What a rip-off. No iguana!”
The realization hit my mom at that point. She looked at me, and smiled the kind of smile that said “Ahh – NOW I recognize this kid!” And she gave me a hug.
I never watched that movie again – even as an adult. I never will, nor do I care to. I mean really – screw it if there aren’t any giant iguanas.