My daughter Hannah and my mother share a mutual love of Leonardo DiCaprio, which began back in 1996 with the movie Titanic. Every time a DiCaprio movie comes out, my mother calls Hannah to make a date to see it. Since my mother is no longer able to drive and likes to be in bed by eight, Hannah picks her up and they go to a matinee.

            Some of DiCaprio’s post-Titanic movies have been pretty graphic, especially for my peri-octogenarian mother, a woman so delicate that she can’t say “Gosh darn it!” without adding “excuse my French.” Still, if Leo’s in it, my mother will watch, riveted. She’s seen Gangs of New York, Catch Me If You Can, The Departed, and even Blood Diamond, which she liked, even though it was, in her words, “a little violent.”

            Yesterday, Hannah took her to see Revolutionary Road. Afterwards, I asked Hannah how my mother liked it.

            “Well, it was kind of awkward,” Hannah said. “They swore a lot and there were two sex scenes.”

            “Was she shocked?”

            “She was completely unfazed. I think I was more uncomfortable than she was.”

            “She was probably just happy to see Leo.”

            “Actually, on the way home she seemed quiet. I asked her if something was wrong, and she said she was disappointed in Leo because he was drinking and smoking too much.”

            Amusing, yes, but I think I know where she’s coming from. She has watched enthusiastically as DiCaprio engaged in far riskier behavior than nicotine and alcohol consumption, behavior which typically resulted in spectacular death. But then, to my mother, DiCaprio is the ultimate tragic hero, and as such has no business setting himself up for a lingering, pedestrian death brought on by his own pitiful lack of self-control. My mother did not want to see a tormented DiCaprio go out with an angst-filled whimper; she paid good money for her ticket to watch him up there on the big screen and Gosh darn it, she wants him to show her the bang.