An Open Letter to the Summer Blockbuster

Dear Summer Blockbuster,

You break my heart, time and time again. I don't know if we're going to make it. I think this relationship is officially over. I'd like to say that it's not you...it's me.

But honestly, I think it's you.

Every year it's the same: I get hopeful for what you might bring to my life. I watch your previews for six months (or more), my anticipation growing stronger day by day.

Over Christmas, it's the "teaser trailer." It's always a refreshing opener to the artsy-fartsy Oscar-hopeful I'm watching. I think: "Awesome! They're going to make a movie about that!"

Through the Spring, the excitement builds. You give me a full preview of your beauty and richness. It's two minutes of awesomeness that I can watch over and over again online. I become giddy with excitement, drudging through my life, waiting for June to arrive.

Then finally, school is out, summer is upon us, and your opening weekend arrives. I struggle with how to pursue you: Do I stay up late on Thursday for the midnight showing? Do I go the cheap route and sneak in candy? Or do I invest in the relationship like I should and buy the jumbo popcorn and large drink combo? Yes...that's the right thing to do. After all, you're worth it.

And then it happens: you let me down. All the promises you have made for the past year go unfulfilled. Your over-the-top action sequences never compensate for the lack of substance. Your big name stars are worthless as they act out the mindless drivel that is serving as a script. Let's be honest, you don't have a compelling story to tell; just an idea sold in a Hollywood pitch meeting.

Two hours later I leave feeling empty...and dirty...and broke. Have you run the numbers on what it costs to take a family of seven to the movies lately? It's not cheap.

I'm not asking for much here. I just feel that if your two-minute preview is like our courtship then your two-hour movie should be like our marriage. I can tell you, the courtship rocked. I was soooo in love with you then. But the marriage: not so much.

So I think it's over between us. But I still want to be friends.

Perhaps I'll see you in the Redbox machine at Walmart in a few months. We'll get together at my house where my entire investment in the relationship will be a buck for the rental and a buck for the microwave popcorn. But that's all I can give. You've burned me too many times. And I will not be burned again.

Unless, of course, they make an "A-Team" movie. What? They did? And it's coming out this summer? Oh, baby, you had me at hello.

Yours Forever,

Barrett