The Sting is my brother’s favorite movie. At least that’s what he says.
I have three siblings that are close in age, but there is a significant age gap between them and me. I vaguely remember them watching The Sting when I was young, but I don’t remember anything about the plot. For a long time I confused it with the musician Sting and it is still inexplicably linked in my mind with the song “A Bicycle Built for Two.”
About 15 years ago, my brother found out I remembered nothing about “the best movie ever” so he insisted I watch it with him. We had barely gotten past the title sequence when he out of the blue remembered there was something more important for him to be doing, so he got up and left, saying we’d have to watch it later. We didn’t.
A couple of years passed before he realized I still hadn’t seen this “most incredible film” and we again sat down to see it. But a few minutes later he suddenly decided it was too late at night to be starting a movie, so he went up to bed, suggesting I stay and watch it. I didn’t.
This pattern continued for nearly a decade. As if some mysterious force was keeping me from experiencing “Hollywood at its finest.”
Say what you will, but actions speak louder than words, and if even a movie’s “biggest fan” can’t even endure more than the opening credits, I don’t know why I should.