Pauline Nevins commentary: Daughters and dolls

My friend said it was hilarious. Brian and I are going to see it. My daughter, Tina, was referring to a friend's review of the Barbie movie. Although, her friend admitted his wife, who wasn't born here, missed many of the cultural references. Let's go to the movies, I said to Jim. It seems lately my husband's social life has been centered on providing details of our home renovations, completed 17 years ago, to every tradesperson that crosses our threshold. This he does despite my standing behind the person pointing vigorously at my imaginary wristwatch. Jim ignores me. We can have lunch after the movie, I say. Food usually does the trick. I checked my cell, and Barbie was showing at the Regal Cinema in Auburn. Great. They had a morning show that lasted less than two hours. Perfect timing. I parked under a sliver of shade in the crowded cinema parking lot. The whole of Auburn had swarmed to watch Barbie. They had heard the hype, too. Jim and I tottered off toward the box office. A sign directed us to buy tickets at the concession. I pushed open the door. A blast of arctic air greeted us. I was glad that stuffed within the carry-on bag slung over my shoulder was a woolen cardigan next to the bottle of water I was smuggling. Barely visible behind the concession counter was a petite young woman doing her best not to frown. Earlier, I rummaged through my kitchen junk drawer and retrieved four pre-COVID Regal gift cards, generously donated through the years by Mike, my brother-in-law. I handed one to her. Could you see how much is left on this card, I asked. She managed a smile. Fifty dollars, she said. That's great, I said, having expected much less. Following the purchase of two tickets, one giant "small" Dr Pepper (remember, I had water), and two popcorns – one buttered – my windfall quickly reduced to $11. Choose your seats, the young woman said, pointing to a small monitor. I hear her say the blue squares are occupied; the gray are open. Wow, I thought, looking at the sea of blue, the town of Auburn really was up for Barbie. There were only six gray squares. I called out two numbers in the middle of the theater, halfway back. Those seats are broken, she said. What? I thought but didn't say since this poor girl was not only selling tickets but pouring drinks and popping popcorn. How about – and I called out two more seat numbers. Occupied, she said. "What?" I said – this time out loud. The blues are open, she gently corrected, displaying patience far beyond her pay grade. The grays are not. We selected our seats. Inside the dimly lit theater, the occupants were one couple snuggling in the nosebleed section, and another sprawled in the front row. What's the number of our seats, Jim whispered. He was serious. Thankfully, we arrived early enough to scale the 84 steps to our seats. We were immediately blasted by advertisements and trailers that continued for at least 20 minutes. Jim kept throwing me a sideways glance. He's regretting this, I thought. Wait 'till he discovers that I've polished off half the bag of his buttered popcorn. **Spoiler Alert! This paragraph discusses the opening shot of the movie** The film began with a sweet scene. Little girls playing with their baby dolls, pushing prams, pretend-feeding and bathing them. Then a giant pair of long, slim legs appear and the camera pans skyward to reveal a tall, slender but shapely, light-skinned, blond-haired, blue-eyed representation of female perfection. Barbie. The little girls smash their baby dolls to pieces and throw them up in the air. OK, this is not what I expected. Following the movie, I treated Jim to a delicious lunch at the Monkey Cat Restaurant. Once home, I called Tina. Did you see my text? I asked. She giggled. I had texted that Jim said the movie was the worst he'd ever seen – I followed his quote with an emoji crying laughing. Dad never likes any movie I recommend, she said, amused. I told her I thought the film was funny in parts but not worthy of the media frenzy, although, during the movie, I heard the couple in the back row cracking up at parts that didn't strike me as particularly hilarious. The movie is full of cultural satire, my daughter said, that's part of the appeal. For example, the opening is mocking 2001: A Space Odyssey. Really, I said. I didn't get any of them. Tina and I chatted about her first Barbie. I loved my doll, she said, because her skin was darker, like yours, and she had dark hair. I swallowed a lump in my throat. I still have her somewhere, she said. Those sweet words were worth the price of admission. And missing the cultural references didn't seem to matter. Pauline Nevins is the author of the memoir, "Fudge" The Downs and Ups of a Biracial, Half-Irish British War Baby, and Bonkers for Conkers, a compilation of personal essays. She can be reached at paulinenevins.com.