Back when I was a professional film critic and people would ask me what I did for a living, they would sometimes say, “I don’t envy you having to watch all those terrible movies” when I told them my profession.
I would smile, pat them on the head condescendingly, and deliver my standard line about how a bad day at the movies was still better than the best day at the coal mine.
Besides, I love terrible movies! They’re my thing! I’ve written books and columns about bad movies and have a podcast, Travolta/Cage, that regularly, even obsessively, chronicles that endlessly fascinating subject. My World of Flops, my column about the biggest disasters in film history, is currently in its SEVENTEENTH year and its third stint at The A.V. Club.
I have spent my life and career happily, eagerly watching the worst in entertainment and Reagan kind of broke me. I can’t recall the last time I had less fun at the movies.
Last night, I saw a movie that posed a formidable challenge to my conviction that the worst day at the movies is better than the best day at the coal mine.
Suffering through the 135 minutes of hysterical right-wing propaganda that constitutes Reagan had me thinking that maybe working in a coal mine might not be that bad after all, Black Lung and possible fatal cave-ins included.
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