Last night Jack and I watched the 1938 version of A Christmas Carol, which happens to be my very most favorite version. I like this one because it shows Scrooge changing as the movie goes along, recapturing the charm and joy of his youth, and feeling true shame in how his actions have affected others. It also shows him as being more terrified and shamed at how his death is received by those who knew him (either with celebration or indifference) than at the actual thought of his eventual death. He’s a normal, lonely man who has grown cold and defensive, who just needed to be drawn out of his shell.

It seems to me that the more modern versions love to paint Scrooge as an unmitigated asshole until the very last scene where he sees his tombstone and then voila, he is a changed man because he fears death. Come on, he changes because he sees that he’s going to die? What, he really thinks that he’ll never die? That has never rung true with me, and I find Scrooge to be a far more interesting and sympathetic character when he cares about what people think.

Anyway, near the end, in the scene where Bob Cratchit and his family are talking about the death of Tiny Tim, I–of course–got a tear or three in my eye, because I AM a huge weenie and cry at damn near anything sad or emotional in a movie. But then I looked over at my husband, who was sitting with his head leaned back and his arms up by his head in a manner that was probably meant to look “casual” but instead looked just a bit too much like “hiding my face.”

“You big weenie!” I accused. “You’re crying too!”

He lowered his arms and grinned sheepishly at me. “Well, of course. It’s Tiny Tim! Yes, I’m a weenie.”

And that is yet another reason why I put up with the man–because he cries at movies darn near as much as I do. :)