Those of you who know me personally might not take me as a sensitive soul. A delicate, blushing flower. A gentle ray of light, damaged by the slightest of touches. But if you’ve been out to a movie with me, you’ve learned the truth.

Somehow, I twitch when I see violence on-screen. The more that I can empathize with the recipient of the violence, the more I cringe. Cartoonish violence might elicit a slight grimace; I’ll hide under the chair if I believe it—if the director wants me to believe it. (“300” and “Cowboy Bebop” cause me no more than the occasional wince, for example, while my neck hurt for quite a while watching “Million Dollar Baby.”)

This leaves me in a difficult situation with many fine movies. Friends have warned me against various films that I’m unlikely to enjoy. Some I’m willing to brave despite the descriptions: for example, I watched Dark Knight because, well, it was Dark Knight and it was good. Quantum of Solace was cartoonish enough to not bother me in the least.

And that brings me to my review of Slumdog Millionaire. There I am, walking into the theater. It’s pitched as a comedy/romance, and everyone loves it (92% at Rotten Tomatoes)—a great date film for the night before Thanksgiving weekend. I’m with it. I vaguely recognize the name “Danny Boyle”, but don’t put it together until I leave.

“Danny Boyle.” That’s Trainspotting. Trainspotting holds a special place in my history as a movie that I loved every minute of it that I watched—but I watched very little of it. (The remainder I believe I spent hiding behind the seat.) The acting was brilliant, the writing was incredible, the humor was well-balanced—and needles on screen make me far more anxious than needles in person. I made it through, but only because my friends kept lying, and telling me that it calmed down after this scene.

Bastards.

Anyway, Slumdog Millionaire is amazing. It’s the story of a man who is just about to win the big prize on the Indian version of “Who wants to be a millionaire.” He’s not very educated, and barely literate, and, we learn, hopelessly in love with a woman he’s lost several times. Destiny, however, seems to bring him to where he is: the events in his life (told through flashbacks) line up nicely with the acts of the game show. The meat of the movie is in the flashbacks: to his childhood in the slums, his premature orphaning, his apprenticeship to a Fagan-like beggar king, and so on. The photography in these flashbacks is vivid and lush: the photographer wants us to know about the richness and beauty of India, but also the misery and poverty. One act happens in the shadow of the Taj Mahal, just so we can sometimes look over and see it glowing in the distance, and perhaps contrast these slums with that beauty.

Over time, he meets a girl; she will turn up over and over again in his life. She’s his destiny, and her existence drives his own actions inexorably forward to the game of Millionaire. And yet--

--and yet, I walked out. Regretting every step of it, I needed to go. I’d seen an eye cut out with a spoon, and a scene or two of brutal torture played, if not for laughs, then at least a little lightly. It clearly wasn’t going to get better, and when character staggers in, threatening and drunken, to the horror of those around him, I decided that it was enough of a movie for the night. Perhaps, like episodes of Battlestar Galactica, I’ll watch this in 20 minute segments, hoping that the next bit will be happier.

Until then, I’m giving this a mixed thumbs up. If your version of escapist romantic comedy can include torture, than this movie is a fine one, and worth bringing your family to. If, like me, you get a little shaky—well, perhaps the several uplifting World War II movies coming out this season are more your speed.