There are two ways of taking pills—two and only two.
You pinch the pill between your thumb and index finger, pick it up, and place it on your tongue. You take a drink of water. This method is the tweezers.
Or else: You place the pill in your palm and launch it toward your mouth, as if your teeth were battlements and your arm a siege machine. Don’t bother with the water. This method is the catapult.
In real-world situations, many people—let’s say most—make a habit of the tweezers. In the movies, the opposite is true. An on-screen pill bottle works like Chekhov’s gun: Eventually, its contents will be fired at an actor’s mouth, or smashed between his lips, or hurled into his gullet.
Think of Austin Butler as the lead in Elvis, alone in his hotel room: He slaps those quaaludes in, liquid-free, sideburns tilted toward the ceiling. It’s a textbook movie swallow, the Stanislavski Fling. Butler got an Oscar nomination; so did Ellen Burstyn, popping diet pills in Requiem for a Dream. On Succession, Jeremy Strong and Kieran Culkin, each a two-time Emmy nominee, gobble meds on-screen. Going catapult is everywhere in cinema; it’s a gesture that befits the biggest stars. Angelina Jolie shoots her pills in Girl, Interrupted. So does Brittany Murphy. Jake Gyllenhaal catapults a pill in Donnie Darko. Albert Brooks in Modern Romance. In Goodfellas, Ray Liotta does it twice.
I love the movies! But it’s time we had a public-health announcement: The catapult is not, in fact, how a person should be taking pills. The act of swallowing a medication is so pervasive—and so intimate—that one easily forgets it is a skill that must be learned. In the U.S., roughly three-fifths of all adults are on prescription drugs; perhaps one-sixth will falter when they try to gulp it down. Twenty years ago, Bonnie Kaplan, a research psychologist at the University of Calgary, devised a new technique for helping people overcome…
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