In August, two of my friends and two of their friends went to see the movie Crazy Rich Asians. The movie had received good reviews on CBC and Rotten Tomatoes (plus one of my friends usually likes romantic comedies), so my friends and their friends took a ferry, drove for ninety minutes, paid their admission, bought popcorn and drinks, and settled in on their reclining seats to watch a movie that they ended up hating. My friends were embarrassed that they had persuaded their friends to come along and they felt that they had paid way too much to see a bad movie about ridiculously rich people. “It’s just like the ‘Emperor’s New Clothes,’” said one of my friends. “No one is admitting that the movie is terrible.” Three months later, despite my warnings about the movie, my daughter paid $7 US to rent it online and then she and her husband and I sat on their comfy couch, sipped Scotch, and for the next two hours laughed out loud as we watched Rachel (the ordinary young woman) and Nick (the filthy rich young man) deal with his crazy (and sometimes scary) family and friends. Sure, it was formulaic, and I usually don’t care about filthy rich people, but the Singaporean street food looked delicious and a couple of the supporting actors were hilarious. The ending included the usual last-minute suspense and I really didn’t believe that the relationship would survive, but when I caught sight of a fellow passenger watching the movie on a recent Air Canada flight (it’s everywhere now), a warm fuzzy feeling came over me.