Tata Heberling     Better Than Bad Funny how pathos works. When I walked out of Titanic, I had a splitting headache. At the time, I thought this was due to the flashing lights and sheer loudness of the film. Everyone else around me, however, was misty-eyed and glowing. The teenybopper set was humming the hokey theme song and swaying as they waited for their mothers to pick them up. Couples my age were smooching. It was all I could do to keep myself from screaming, for it was then that I knew what had caused my headache: the sudden death of millions of brain cells in a three-hour-and-twenty-minute space. This made me very angry. Obviously, Hollywood has contrived a brilliant plot -- begin to kill the brain cells of the population when they are in their early teens, then reap the profits later on. Apparently, by using technologically advanced and dazzling special effects and feeding on public curiosity about a horrible and devastating tragedy affecting the lives of thousands of people, it is now possible to include a wimpy, saccharine "plot" audiences have seen and disliked millions of times, and still make millions of dollars. I mentioned this to the (intelligent, college-educated) friend I was with, and she practically slapped me. I went home, took a few aspirin, and lost my faith in popular culture. In a depressive funk, I stared wistfully out the window for several days as the phone calls kept pouring in. "We're going to Titanic again tonight, wanna come?" I cursed Hollywood for stealing my friends from me as it occurred to me that I might never have any semblance of a social life ever again. Certainly, I would never go to another movie. I value too much what little IQ I have left. One night a week later, a different friend called me and suggested we go to a film. She thought I was moaning because of my recent wisdom tooth removal, thought my weak sobs of "never never never" meant "yes," and came to get me. As we waited in what was the longest line I have ever seen (Titanic was playing on two screens), she persuaded me to see As Good As It Gets. I hadn't seen any trailers for it, and I like Helen Hunt a lot, so we went in. And my faith in mankind was restored. This is an American film of the species they just don't make anymore -- a truly honest movie. Jack Nicholson's crusty old obsessive-compulsive Melvin Udall is multifaceted: he's homophobic, anti-Semitic, racist, misogynist; and yet, he is in some ways charming, and we can't help liking him. It is perhaps the finest Nicholson performance I have seen in a very long time. Helen Hunt is at her best as well. As a waitress with a sick son, a bad HMO, bad luck with dating (her first date in ages leaves her saying, "Too much reality for a Friday night," after being in her house a few minutes), and the most realistic portrayal of a mother-daughter relationship I think I have ever seen on screen, whose talent is hinted at in her sitcom Mad About You, finally comes through. Even Greg Kinnear, who was so disappointing in Sabrina, is terrific as Simon, Nicholson's gay neighbor who loses everything from his apartment when he is attacked and nearly beaten to death. The reason the film is so funny (not to mention heart-rending and bittersweet), is that it is driven by the dialogue. The writers of this film (unlike those of some other movies which I won't mention by name) are simply brilliant in their treatment of real life -- it is light but has serious undertones and is awash with witty remarks and terrific one-liners. The characters don't just talk, they have something to say -- and it is always fresh and new (and sometimes irreverent), rather than the same old schmaltz. I walked out feeling revived and proud to be a member of the American population once again. Instead of accepting what the evil film industry had already predigested and vomited up for me to absorb, I had to think to watch this movie. I had to unravel complex characters in complex situations. I really cared about them because they seemed like real people with real problems -- with only a touch of Hollywood (because really, whose life is ever as large or as perfect as what we find in movies? But that's what we go to movies for, isn't it? Real life, with a little tweak for added freshness.) If you know of anybody who is thinking of going to see Titanic for the ninth time (that's over 27 hours of your life, buddy, and more than 60 bucks), they are probably a lost cause. But I urge anyone and everyone to go out and see an intelligent film for a change. At one point, Jack Nicholson stands in the lobby of his psychiatrist's office and says to the roomful of dour-looking patients, "What if this is as good as it gets?" Be assured, gentle viewer, it certainly is

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