thank god that’s over

Years ago, 13 to be precise, I went to the cinema with a friend of mine, his girlfriend and his girlfriend’s friend, whom I had been texting on my Sony Ericsson W910i for the weeks leading up to this double-date.

The film was The Way, which tells the story of a grieving father, played by Martin Sheen, who travels to France to scatter his son’s ashes along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route to the town of Santiago de Compostela on Spain’s north-western coast.

His adult son, who died in a tragic accident while walking the trail, is played by Martin’s real-life son Emilio Estevez, while James Nesbitt portrays one of the many plucky companions Martin meets along this spiritual expedition.

Our journey to the cinema, in comparison to Martin’s journey to the site of his son’s untimely demise, was unremarkable. I got on the DART in Bray and my friend joined me at the next stop in Shankill.

We were to meet the girls at the cinema in Dun Laoghaire, about a 25-minute trip, first by train and then on foot, from Bray.

I, then aged 15, was wearing a yellow t-shirt, grey full-zip hoodie, pale grey washed-out jeans and a pair of red high-top Converse sneakers, the only items of clothing I owned that were not purchased at H&M.

Dressed like that and with €20 in my velcro wallet, I set off that afternoon with the confidence of someone who was not dressed like that and who had far more than €20 in their pocket.

We alighted in Dun Laoghaire and strolled up from the DART station, through the town’s main street and eventually to the Bloomfield’s Shopping Centre that adjoins the IMC Cinema, where we met up with the girls and bought snacks in Tesco to hide in our JanSport backpacks.

The Way

The movie opens on present-day Los Angeles, where Martin Sheen is working as an ophthalmologist. After some easy banter with a sassy older patient, our protagonist leaves the office to play golf with his well-heeled buddies at the local country club.

After more easy banter, this time with his well-to-do pals, Martin receives a phone call from a French police captain from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, a small town in southwest France, who informs him that his son Daniel has suffered a fatal accident while crossing the Pyrenean foothills of the nearby commune of Ostabat-Asme. Martin hangs up in disbelief before racing away in a golf buggy.

The next 20 minutes of the film jump between shots of Martin at confession, Martin asking his secretary to cancel all his appointments and Martin preparing to travel to France to recover Daniel’s body. We’re shown flashbacks of the father and son’s strained relationship following Daniel’s decision to travel the world instead of completing his doctorate at UC Berkeley.

Mired in guilt and grief, Martin decides to undertake the gruelling trek in his son’s memory.

I chose this film. For a first date, wearing high-top sneakers, with a girl I liked, eating Banshee Bones, I chose this film.

The stretch

For the next 45 minutes or so, I sat rigid, making fun of the film with my friend who sat to my left, and occasionally checking in with my date, who sat to my right.

About an hour into the film, roughly halfway, my friend and his girlfriend starting making out, or ‘meeting’ as we called it then. This left me, who was there to do the same thing, let’s be honest, with a decision to make.

I glanced briefly to my right and smiled. She smiled back.

“This film is actually alright,” I whispered.

She laughed and I returned to my forward-facing position with my arms straight down by my side, making use of neither armrest.

I allowed another 20 minutes to elapse before contemplating my next move. I made another quick glance to my right, this time locking eyes. We shared another smile.

Then, bafflingly, as Martin and his band of unlikely misfits reached a small provincial town in the Spanish wine region and Martin was arrested for civil disobedience, I reached my right arm up over the back of her seat and rested it, outstretched, across her shoulders.

There it stayed, from the point in the movie where Martin is released by the local Spanish police after spending a night in a cell until the point in the movie where the group reaches their destination on the steps of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. For the uninitiated, that’s about 35-40 minutes.

The lean

Slowly I withdrew my arm, which was now numb, and reached into my jeans pocket for my phone. I navigated to my messages and composed a new text.

“Do you want to meet?”

I heard a vibration, and my date reached for the pocket of her hoodie. She began typing.

My phone buzzed back.

“Yeh xx [smiley face emoji].”

You would imagine that acquiring literal written consent in this fashion would constitute enough of a green light for me to engage. But no, another 5-10 minutes passed. By this point, Martin had scattered the last of his son’s ashes into the North Atlantic Ocean having quelled, as much as a bereaved parent can, the feelings of desperation and despair that had consumed him since that fateful greenside phone call.

Back in South County Dublin, I was consumed with a very different but equally acute sense of desperation and despair, the kind that can only accompany the feeling of an opportunity about to be missed. Spurred on by Martin’s newfound devil-may-care approach to life, however, I finally leaned in for the kill.

We kissed for the remaining six or seven minutes, and for the duration of the end credits. As a result, my observations on this portion of the movie relate only to the film’s score, which Naomi Schwartzbaum of the Philadelphia Inquirer describes as “reluctantly moving”.

Speaking of reluctantly moving, the kiss was nearly over as the credits rolled down as far as the visual effects assistants and the location scouts, who may I say were the true heroes of this picture given some of the breath-taking views that were showcased throughout the film.

The catharsis felt by Martin Sheen’s character in the film’s third act was matched only by the catharsis I felt in that moment. Much like Martin, I had achieved the goal I set out that morning to achieve. I hadn’t enjoyed the film, none of us had, but that didn’t matter: my mission was accomplished.

As the screen faded to black and the lights came back on in the theatre, we pulled slowly away from one another. We opened our eyes, and I opened my mouth for what felt like the first – but definitely the last – time that afternoon.

“Thank god that’s over.”

Before I had the chance to explain that I was referring to the film and not the kiss, we were already shuffling from our seats and towards the exit.

My friend and I parted with the girls outside the cinema. He hugged his girlfriend and I gave a sheepish wave goodbye to my date as they got into the car that was there to collect them.

The DART trip home from Dun Laoghaire to Bray that evening felt like the reverse of Martin’s pilgrimage from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Santiago de Compostela. While he had journeyed mentally from a state of deep anguish to spiritual reconciliation, I had travelled from feelings of hope and prosperity to disgrace, ignominy, indignity and shame… and instead of an urn carrying my cremated son, I carried with me the burnt remains of the chances I had with a girl I liked.