Last week, I met Jane Kennedy who, aside from writing the busiest cookbook in my kitchen, also wrote one of my favourite movies of all time: The Castle.
I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to watch it again, and to show it to my kids (12, 10 and 7) as an iconic piece of filmmaking and proof that a great story will smash a big special effects budget every time. I also thought they’d think it was hilarious.
So I popped out to Blockbuster and rented it. I was surprised to see it was rated ‘M’.
It’d been a while, but I’d seen The Castle many times and couldn’t for the life of me remember anything rude or confronting about it.
I asked my husband, ‘Can you think of a reason the kids shouldn’t watch The Castle? It’s M.’
‘Nope,’ he said, and we settled onto the couch like the Kerrigans watching ‘The Best of Hey Hey.’ All was well.
Until lawyer Dennis Danuto’s photocopier jammed.
F#ckin’ hell. F#ck. F#ck. F#ck this fucking piece of sh#t.
Aha. That’s the M rating explained.
As things got worse for the Kerrigans, and Dale got his sweary-pants on too.
We kept the movie going though, and we all enjoyed every minute.