I was mildly entertained during 45 minutes of the new movie, Interstellar. The physics was wrong, and the politics of its dystopian future defied logic, but the production held my interest.
Then my phone buzzed for a housecall. Theaters will refund my money, but I don’t ask unless the movie has just begun. Admission is cheap compared to my housecall fee, and I can always return. Half the time, I’m happy to leave. When I attend a play or live performance, I ask a colleague to cover but never for a movie, although I sit on the aisle so I can hurry out and answer without disturbing the audience.
Doctors agree that patients call at the most inconvenient time, but I look forward to calls, so I try to persuade the fickle God of Housecalls that I don’t want to be interrupted. Going to a movie or restaurant or the dentist seems to accomplish this. If I have no plans for the afternoon, I may lay down for a nap even if I’m not tired. It’s my hope, often achieved, that the phone will ring as soon as I fall asleep.
I saw the final two hours of Interstellar a week later and remained mildly entertained. I won’t give anything away, but when a Hollywood movie features a conflict between science and love, only one outcome is possible.