COMMITMENTS : Till ‘Death Wish’ Do Us Part : When this couple said ‘I do,’ they didn’t promise to like the same films. It has to do with ‘girl movies’ and ‘boy movies.’

The other night, my wife suggested we see “The Piano.” Now that sounds like a lot of fun: two hours of watching Holly Hunter saying nothing. Sorry, not even the presence of Harvey Keitel--one of my favorite movie thugs--could get me off the couch for that.

I think my wife was just testing me, to see if my knuckles still scrape the ground when I walk.

After years of disagreement over whose choice will prevail, Robin and I have concluded that we suffer from what we call Boys’ Movie-Girls’ Movie Syndrome. I know it sounds like a cliche, but that’s just the way it is: I like mindless action; she prefers gauzy sentimentality.

Robin’s a pushover for the period piece, with a musical score as lush as Hawaii and major redemption in the end for extremely Angst -ridden characters. An extra “thumbs up” if it was produced before Sputnik.

I’m a sucker for squealing tires, spent shell casings, and guys who are long on attitude but short on the verbal ability to express it. She loves to razz me about my “buddies,” as she calls them: Charles Bronson, James Coburn, Lee Marvin, Chuck Norris, Arnold Schwarzenegger--that crowd.

So what’s her problem? Here’s a woman who’s trying to convince our young son that “Camelot” is a war movie, when anybody knows it isn’t a war movie unless Sylvester Stallone wastes everything in his path searching for POWs in the jungle.

Robin’s ideal movie is long and boring and frilly and subtitled and who needs it and please, wake me when it’s over. In the checkout line at our local video store, there she’ll be with stuff like “A Room With a View,” “The Age of Innocence” and “The Remains of the Day.” But I’ll be right behind her with “Out for Justice,” “Death Wish II” and “Missing in Action III.”

And she has the nerve to complain about my taste? This is a woman who:

* Adores movies only with costumes from the French Renaissance, Victorian era or the mid-1950s (which pretty much rules out cowboy hats, loincloths and anything that clanks when you walk).

* Raves over cinematography that makes every scene look as if it were shot through a heavy glaze of Vaseline (but can’t quite appreciate the same effect in “Emmanuelle”).

* Swoons over any musical with Fred and Ginger, Gene Kelly--even John Travolta (yet doesn’t share my enthusiasm for guys in togas blaring trumpets).

Would you trust the judgment of a woman who once passed on tickets to a Redskins-Cowboys game at RFK to watch “The Nutcracker” on PBS? Sheesh.

As long as we’re on the subject of taste, what can you say about somebody who won’t miss an episode of “All My Children” and thinks it’s a travesty that Susan Lucci hasn’t won an Emmy? Who gets weepy over phone company commercials?

It wasn’t always this way. During our courtship, I willingly accompanied Robin to see films with an appeal to the intelligentsia, offbeat flicks such as “Diva” and “The Gods Must Be Crazy.” By the time we got married, Robin probably believed that she was gaining a life partner whose taste in film was every bit as refined as her own.

Ha! Fooled her!

She thought she was getting Gene Siskel, but she wound up with Snuffy Smith.

We still haven’t fully resolved our differences in this department. We’ve discussed going our separate ways at the multiplex, but mostly we enrich the local video store by checking out two movies instead of one: something froufrou for her, something a bit more basic for my caveman instincts.

I try to tell her that maybe some of us brutes embrace the lowbrow because we were force-fed the highbrow when we were too young. Like so many George Bushes who gleefully abandoned the broccoli of childhood for the pork rinds of adulthood, maybe we just hunger for the lowest common denominator in movie fare.

Sometimes our tastes miraculously converge and she actually likes something I recommended.

It’s happened with “Unforgiven,” “In the Line of Fire” and “The Fugitive”--all chock-full of my buddies. When the film credits roll, she turns to me and whispers: “Honey, I liked that. Really.”

Maybe there’s hope for her after all. I suppose, in the spirit of marital harmony, I ought to give “The Piano” a chance. My buddies will just have to understand.