"Let's go see 'The Impossible'! I said, because the previews presented Ewan McGregor as the star of a feel good true story of 2004 Tsunami Survival. Kate watched the previews and agreed. In perky moods, with popcorn and Diet Coke, we picked our seats in the theater.
"Are we going to cry?" Kate asked as the lights dimmed.
"Probably." I said, and settled in for what I thought would be a PG-13 tragic and touching tale of strength and the bonds of love.
OH MY GOD I HAVE PTSD.
On and on, with gaping open wounds and dead bodies, and then more wounds. Oh, the wounds. Big, huge, hanging wounds, which are then dragged along the debris. Pulling dried insides out of one's own throat while vomiting? That was during a mellow part of the movie, where I wasn't holding my purse up in front of the screen and hissing, "Dear God in heaven, please make this fucking stop."
Kate was crying out of sheer anxiety. I almost walked out three separate times, particularly when the director takes us underwater so we can see (repeatedly) how fucking agonizing it was to have been swirling around in the sharp debris. Which causes horrible wounds. Which you see. Over and over and over while people scream in their understandable pain.
There should be a support group for people who have seen this movie. We should be getting FEMA money. I am never going on a tropical vacation again. This movie feels like punishment for having boring problems.
So, just to recap, do not see 'The Impossible' unless you want to be the most stressed out you've ever been in your life for 1 hour and 54 minutes.
PS: I am 80% sure I was sitting next to Suze Orman...