Flummoxing Netflix

I suppose it's an indication of the limited, somewhat pitiful life I lead that one of my greatest pleasures is flummoxing the Netflix computer.

Netflix (which is, for those of you living on another planet, the extraordinary dvd-by-mail company that has wiped our strip malls clean of video rental stores) keeps track of what you order and then suggests other movies you might like, the results of a complex algorithm about which I once read a really interesting article but of course can no longer recall any of the details or even any of the significant facts. (Gimme a break. I'm a middle-aged woman in menopause.)

Anyway, humanist that I am, I find the idea that I can be reduced to an algorithm profoundly disturbing. Thus it gives me great delight to know that I regularly give the Netflix computer conniption fits. But "I" in this case isn't actually just me. "I" embraces both my sons, for both of them know my Netflix password, and both of them regularly stream Netflix movies to their computers. (Me, I prefer the old-fashioned, out-of-date dvds that come in the cheery red envelopes.) The result of this password/account sharing is, from the Netflix computer's point-of-view, one really weird customer who enjoys indie movies about suicide, anything Jane Austen, and adolescent comedies about farting, vomiting, and masturbating. You should see what comes up under "Our Recommendations for Facing-50."

Tho' it does dawn on me that we have here the makings of a great reality tv show. A kind of American Idol for filmmakers: Come up with a movie that will please this Weird Person. Must be set in Regency England and contain a brooding but appealing aristocratic hero and a spunky but still gentlewomanly heroine, must also contain a suicide and weird camera angles and lots of awkward silence and an alienating soundtrack, while also being a rousing  and earthy comedy containing frequent references to body exhalations of all sorts. An Oscar awaits.