It took mere seconds for the nervous sweats to set in. The stale stench of popcorn mixed with the aroma of shattered hopes, and what I hope is not stale urine. Like walking into the middle of someone elses break up, I instantly knew I shouldn’t be there; there was no way this was going to end well. Why had I thought this was a good idea?! Why had anyone thought this would be a good idea?
Will Smith hasn’t released a film in 3 years, leaving the Earth unprotected for three consecutive summers. His presence in summer blockbusters has been a comfortingly reliable standby, like knowing your grandmother will give you socks for Christmas: not the coolest thing ever, but it gets the job done. Upon hearing the news of Smith’s return to alien slaughtering in Men in Black 3, I became giddy with excitement. There was no logic in this sudden burst of excitement. It was purely guttural, rising from a place of clandestine immaturity and under-developed nerdery. I did not realize it at the time, but I’d been conditioned, from a young age, to associate Will Smith with unbridled fun. Undoing this conditioning, as it turns out, requires one viewing of MiB3 followed by 2 glasses of wine, 3 episodes of Community, and a good, long cry (actual duration of crying may vary from person to person).