On a very hot, disgustingly humid day last July I decided to treat myself and see a movie in person. It was an indulgence of money, but especially of time. The film was almost three hours long and it was by a filmmaker I had never heard of. An extravagant leap of faith. Arriving early at the Metrograph I had a flashback to the art cinema houses of my past. Awkward-looking solo cinephiles milled around the lobby, linked by their love for film, spending nearly 20 bucks to watch a Georgian movie tangentially about soccer as a tie-in to the World Cup. It was a poison pill for efficiency.
I look over their small but mighty collection of books about cinema lovingly and briefly considered purchasing a volume about Jean-Luc Godard in French. There was a nice little cocktail bar and a wall of classic snacks under stage lighting. I was home again.
The experience of watching the film was stripped down to its essentials — a purist's delight. There were no ads and a reasonable amount of previews for upcoming arty movies that would play at this cinema. As the outside world churned outside, I was taken on a sort of fairy tale adventure about a man and a woman who one day inhabit other bodies and a dog who had a favourite bar for watching soccer.
Being there felt like those other times in my life that I came back to things I loved after being separated from them — the ocean or the sea, old cities and their narrow streets embedded with generations of history, the atmosphere of a thoughtfully conceived independent coffee shop or book store, or listening again to a great album I'd nearly forgotten about. It was a reminder that I'm not really dissatisfied with the world. Just sometimes too far from the parts of it I love.
Comments
Post a Comment