Wuthering heights

I was on a business trip in Spain, far away from the gray and fog, when suddenly the phone rang. My mother. She told me about a movie that we need to see as soon as I get home, and since I had work to do and I really had nothing against a relaxing evening, I quickly confirmed my participation and went back to work. Wuthering Heights - the title of a film that will shorten my Saturday afternoon. Unfortunately, I hadn't read Emily Brontë's novel, but I knew it was a tragic love story. What's the big deal about the love story I'm going to see with my mom in my 35th year?

Before I turned on airplane mode, I quickly checked on the plane what I had gotten myself into, and with the exception of a couple of sexual scenes in which I would squeeze my lips tightly, I did not find anything shocking. Saturday came, and with it the Wuthering Heights. There were about fifteen of us in the cinema - us, older couples, and groups of older girlfriends (one of them cried wildly during the film). I was reminded of the Titanic and how embarrassed I was at the car sex scene in my early years. My company for the night was my father. But I thought it would be different this time. I was twenty years older, I have experienced many things, and I will also spend this movie with my mother.

I thought the movie was better to watch on the couch than on the big screen, but the story is still beautiful, and the scenography is magical. Still, it didn't go as smoothly as I had anticipated. We shared the hall with couples and groups of friends for a reason. Although it never explicitly shows this, the story is filled with filth and full of sexual symbolism. Broken balls, touches, masturbation, and sex. No touching of the organs on the canvas, but lots of sighs and facial grimaces. A film that, although I have an open mind, I had a really hard time watching with my mother. I was relieved when their great love story ended, and only a tragic ending followed. 

I felt like a teenager with a tingling sensation between my legs, but holding a serious, already slightly bored face and hoping that I would not fail. Fortunately, the cinema is pitch black. I have always been grateful for these extenuating circumstances. 

At the end, I wondered if this always happened to me, but I couldn't remember what it was like the last time. Until I was 20, we watched a lot of movies together, and I know I was deeply ashamed of such scenes. Then I got used to watching movies by myself, or in the company of those before whom I can be relaxed even during sex scenes. 

I watched different films with my mother in the cinema, including the last one, White Washes at ninety, which is more family-friendly and better suited to viewing with my mother than Wuthering Heights. Nevertheless, before watching this movie, I was comforted that Emily Brontë, a nineteenth-century writer, could not write a novel full of dirty details. But I forgot that the movie was made in this century. I am not puritanical and usually love such movie scenes, but it depends on the company whether I show my enthusiasm.

I was partially comforted only when reading a paper by a clinical psychologist confirming that viewing sexual scenes with parents is torture, regardless of age and type of family. We've always thought of ourselves as an open family, but my discomfort meter jumps every time one of these scenes is on the air. 

My reaction was normal at both fifteen and thirty-five. I could be as relaxed as I want to be, but obviously, deep down, I don't want sex and family to mix. And this is probably the main reason why most of them decided to see Wuthering Heights with their partners or friends. I will probably experience something similar again, but at least I will know that deep down I am normal if I am tempted by lust and discomfort at the same time. I will squeeze my lips tightly again and pretend that everything is normal, relying on the darkness in the hall and my mother's gaze directed at the canvas.