Written by Robert Rodat
Starring Tom Hanks, Tom Sizemore, Edward Burns, Barry Pepper, Adam Goldberg, Vin Diesel, Giovanni Ribisi, Jeremy Davies, Matt Damon, Ted Danson, Paul Giamatti, Dennis Farina, Nathan Fillion, Bryan Cranston, Harve Presnell
I had just settled in to watch Saving Private Ryan for the first time in probably ten years. Like many movies in my collection, it has quietly travelled with me across the continent and back, standing alongside its brothers on one shelf or another, always ready for duty but never getting the call. Thanks to this little project, all of these films will finally have another day in the sun.
And so the movie began, with its distinctive shot of the U.S. flag waving with sunlight shining through and its awkward framing story. This was followed soon thereafter by the most justly famous section of the movie, the invasion at Normandy beach. I enjoy most of the journey that the movie takes us on, but my favorite moment occurs early. I won’t give it away, but my spontaneous reaction to it today was saying “Goddamn it!” and then laughing out loud.
After the opening fireworks had settled, the exposition scene was just starting to get the main storyline moving. And that was when I got the telephone call from Tom Hanks.
“Hello, Mister … I’m sorry, I’m not sure how to pronounce that.”
I started to answer, but Hanks cut me off.
“You know, for marketing research purposes it really doesn’t matter. Actually I’m going to save a little time here and go ahead and check a few of these boxes. Age bracket -- B … income -- we’ll be generous and call that one a D ... single … Virgo … and your favorite color is -- periwinkle.
“OK, so that’s the preliminary stuff. The reason I’m calling today, Mister -- you know, why don’t I just call you Skip? It’s informal, it’s fun, it’s easier to remember and it definitely rolls off the tongue nicer than that mess of consonants you got going on there. Skip, the reason for the call is that the surveillance chip embedded in your DVD player shows that you are watching one of my films, specifically Saving Private Ryan. I believe you should be at the scene where Harve Presnell is reading Lincoln’s letter right about … now.
“I want you to go ahead and pause that. If you’ve got some popcorn, you could make some. I should be there in about five minutes. Also, do you like RC cola? Because I get a discount on it and I was going to get a two-liter. You want to go halvsies on it?”
I decided to hold off on making the popcorn for a few minutes, which worked out for the best. Tom didn’t arrive at the house until nine minutes after the call, owing to a busy store and a clerk who had been a pain to haggle with. I showed him in, paid the $.39 which was my share of the cola minus Tom’s share of the popcorn, and we resumed the film from where I’d left off.
“Don’t mind me, Skip,” Tom said through a mouthful of popcorn while he took photographs of my DVD shelves. “I’m just doing demographic research. Hey, do you have any Heckle and Jeckle cartoons?”
I shook my head, and then had a sinking feeling as I realized what he was bound to ask at some point.
A dying Vin Diesel was on screen, trying to hand a blood-covered note to one of his fellow soldiers. “Huh. Whatever happened to that guy?” said Tom. Some of his popcorn was flying out of his mouth in little pieces and landing on my tatami mats. I made a mental note to sweep them later.
Tom’s eyes were once again roaming my well-organized movie collection. “Let’s see, no Fast and Furious, no Chronicles of Riddick. Guess you’re not much of a Vin Diesel fan.” He noted this in his research. And then it happened.
“Holy crap! Where is your copy of Forrest Gump? Did you loan it out to someone?”
I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes.
Tom stood up slowly. His jaw was slightly opened, and I noted he was drooling a little. “Philadelphia … Big … Cast Away?” He was now frantically moving his hands over the spines of my DVDs, looking for a Tom Hanks movie, any Tom Hanks movie. He looked at his notes again. “But … your demographic … you should own Road to Perdition! Or maybe, --”
He scratched through some numbers and, I think, carried a one.
“Splash! Or Bachelor Party! One of them has to be here!”
I muttered something about kind of wanting to see Joe Versus the Volcano again, but it didn’t seem to comfort him.
“I don’t know what to say to you, Skip. Here I’ve spent the last three decades entertaining you. And don’t try to deny it. I have the receipts from when you saw Catch Me if You Can and The Terminal in theaters. So I know I’ve made some kind of connection with you. You’re not going to let the ice melt in that RC, are you?”
Not wanting to upset him further, I took a long sip. And then I saw it, on the fourth shelf from the top, the remake of The Ladykillers starring Tom Hanks. I started to tell Tom, but he interrupted.
“I know. I saw it there too. But we both know that one doesn’t count.”
On screen, machine guns were firing. But it wasn’t enough to drown out the awkward silence in the room.
Tom took a deep swig from his RC and put the glass down on the mantelpiece. He gathered up his research materials and started to say something to me. But the hurt in his eyes said it all. He opened the door and sighed.
I’m sorry, Tom, I was saying to him. But he was already gone.
