The Column: I've been struck by a classic rom-com

During the holidays, old friends in New England sent a note saying they watched "Moonstruck" — again.

Their message comes as reliably each year as the snazzy photo greeting cards celebrating successful children, adorable designer dogs — one sort of "doodle" or another — and scuba diving trips to the Cayman Islands.

I will confess an urge to draw little red dots on all the smiling faces and fangs on the Labradoodles but the moment passes and I put the cards on the mantle and say to my wife, well, isn’t it nice that so-and-so are doing so well? Nothing beats a good inheritance.

"You’re just jealous," my wife says.

"Only kidding," I reply. "You know me. Money means nothing."

"Could have fooled me."

Anyway, let’s meditate briefly on "Moonstruck."

Such passion the movie summons.

"Beautiful," swooned Bill and Nancy, our pals up North. "Life-affirming. Transformative. Exquisite."

On and on.

"Tears soaked my mustache at the end," said Bill, perhaps hoping to be quoted in a newspaper blurb. ("Warning: You’ll be weeping into your whiskers." — William N., West Lebanon, New Hampshire.)

Charmed by the film, Bill and Nancy are not alone.

The 1987 production, in which Cher is transformed from a perfectly attractive Brooklyn bookkeeper to the gorgeous love object of dreamboat Nicholas Cage, has become a holiday standard and, as it turns out, surprise pandemic hit.

"Considering the state of things these days, I think we all need ‘Moonstruck’ right about now," said a critic at the Seattle Times.

New York Magazine pronounced the story — so heartwarming it could set off a pacemaker — perfect for the "strange, semi-apocalyptic" season we are enduring and The New York Times Magazine determined that weary, housebound Americans are being "drawn, with tidal force" to "Moonstruck."

Sorry, no undertow around here.

The closest I get to sand and surf is the French fry station at Nathan’s, Coney Island. Likewise, I maintain safe distance from love stories of all kinds and, particularly, "rom-coms," as we now are required to call romantic comedies.

Overall, my viewing tastes run toward the grim and gloomy — British police procedurals mainly, solemn, disquieting stuff that explores the worst human instincts. Pride, greed, lust, envy — all the seven deadly sins and a few not originally anticipated.

What fun when a tragically flawed and emotionally damaged detective chief inspector is assigned to track down the fiend who has strangled a schoolboy on the cliffs of Dorset or poisoned a barmaid in a dreary London cellar.

For me, terror and suspense is — well, uplifting. Why do we thrill to renderings of figures poised at a precipice or the mouth of Niagara Falls? Someone else is in danger. Phew. Not us.

So bring on the cutthroats and con artists, I think. The evening is young and I am safe on the couch.

"No more murders!"

Hark! A voice. Who speaks?

Oh, yes, it is my wife, and resolute of tone.

She, too, has heard from our "Moonstruck" New Hampshire pals — been told anew of the sparks set off by Cher and Cage, the sweetness of the story, the triumph of love in a Brooklyn setting.

"Forget the shootings and strangulations," my wife declares. "Find the movie."

"We’ve seen it before," I protest though with little hope.

"Thirty years ago," she answers.

And so we watch.

In case you’ve been quarantining since 1987, here’s what happens:

Loretta, the bookkeeper played by Cher, is a late-30s widow recently engaged to Johnny, a nice guy but, let’s face it, no Mr. Excitement. Johnny visits his mother in Italy — big mistake. While Johnny is away, Cher meets his brother Ronny, a deeply depressed baker. In no time, Ronny, soulful and so-o-o handsome, tells Loretta they were thrown together by fate, forget Johnny. Loretta resists, but not much. Ronny takes Loretta to the opera (Puccini). She’s his, done deal. Johnny returns and announces he doesn’t want to get married, after all, something about his mother’s health. Ronny asks Loretta to be his wife. She says yes, Ronny, yes. Dean Martin croons, "That’s Amore," to the closing credits.

"When the moon hits your eye like a big-a pizza pie …"

"Beautiful," sighed my wife.

"Life-affirming," I added, mindful of where we were heading.

"Transformative."

"Exquisite, absolutely."

"Every year from here on out," my wife announced.

We’re over the precipice. By next Christmas, I may have a mustache.