Per our usual routine, earlier this week, Joe and I sat down to dinner in front of the PS4 to watch something while we ate. This time, Joe picked a movie on our Netflix queue while I was not looking.
He chose Instructions Not Included, a two-hour subtitled movie about a Mexican womanizer who becomes a father rather suddenly. For about the first half of the movie I hated him. He was a shameless man-whore with a seriously ugly wig and poor hygiene. Then, as he started to accept his fate as a single father (and as a stuntman), I started to like him more. He seemed to be charmingly wrapped around his daughter’s little finger, and unable to keep himself from spoiling her rotten.
Then, the abandoning mother returns, and demands to be in her daughter’s life. Soon she demands more – to bring the girl back with her to NYC. When that doesn’t work, she reveals that he isn’t actually the father. Now there’s somebody else I hate more than the earlier womanizer.
But, hate for the “mother” is nothing compared to the hate I have for the screenwriter. SPOILER ALERT: Because the person who wrote this lovely story about a womanizer who moves to a better place, works at a dangerous job, and cares only for his little girl, is a horrible person for killing that little girl in the end. That’s right, all the implications that the father is sick, are just misdirection. In fact, when you review the foreshadowing that made the father’s imminent death so obvious, you see that, really, it was the girl’s death they were foreshadowing.
I cried. How could I not? A sweet, loving, and carefree little girl who finally meets her mom and jumps off the cliff in Acapulco, dies in her former womanizer, non-biological, loving, single father’s arms. She was his whole world for 7 years, and she just dies in her sleep, in his arms.