At the Movies

He asked what attracted me to the cinema. A beginning response:

    Since I had been in my 20s, now more than fifty years in my past, the movie theater was my happy place. Whatever was wrong with myself or the world, entering the darkened space of the cinema relieved my anxieties. There had been times when the only relief I could find was in wine and drugs, but I discovered that in the movie theaters I could find a peace all by myself. At the movies I enjoyed not a temporary escape but an experience with something in which my trained critical sense could be engaged. Unlike in the museums or libraries where I tended to grow quickly tired, in the movies I felt alert and absorbed. I remember once walking out of a theater with my father and as I talked about the film he turned to look at me and frustratingly said, “All I want from the movie is to have a good time.” And I answered him: “Me too, but thinking about and analyzing the film is part of my pleasure.” In New York City I lived within walking distance of twelve movie theaters that often played different films, and there was always the subway that could deliver me to the art-house venues in Greenwich Village. At times I would venture on the crosstown M96 or M86 bus to a theater that was situated on the Upper East Side. In the movie theaters my anxieties would for the length of the film fade, and I would find some peace and, even in a noisy film, ironically enjoy a variety of quiet I experienced nowhere else.  There were times when after a particularly stressful week I would come home, run my six-mile course around Central Park, shower, and prepare on some whole grain bread a cheese sandwich (or two!), fill a small plastic baggie with potato chips and include a chocolate cookie or two; and place them carefully in my backpack with a plastic bottle of water and head around the corner to the Thalia on 95^th Street right off Broadway where I could sit in the quiet dark and enjoy my dinner and a double feature of classic films. Ironically, the seats in the Thalia were placed in an irregular manner. Rather than the seats that rose behind those in front making undisturbed viewing possible, at the Thalia the seats in the row behind were placed in a reverse incline: the row in front of me was higher than the row in which I sat.  Sometimes this created some difficulty when a tall person occupied the seat in front of me, but the screenings I attended were rarely sold out and there was always another seat if I was constrained to move. The lights would dim and, the theater would darken, and as the screen filled, I opened my backpack, took out my dinner and spent a peaceful several hours in the theater.

The Thalia is the theater in front of which stood Woody Allen in Annie Hall waiting impatiently for Diane Keaton to arrive in a taxi. She was a few minutes late and so he wouldn’t purchase tickets for The Sorrow and the Pity, a four-hour documentary about the collaboration between the French and the Nazis, because he would not enter a theater after the film had already begun. I suspect he was wary of entering the theater even during the pre-film minutes or even during the previews! I had at some point screened that documentary—not at the Thalia—and was not terribly anxious to see it again. I sympathized with Annie, but I also understood Alvy’s hesitancy to enter the movie theater even a bit late. 

There is a ritual attached to my attendance at the movies: I always arrive early and find my seat. Arriving mid-day for a show when the theater is sparsely attended, I would choose a center seat in the row in the center of the theater and settle in uncrowded and comfortably alone. At a later showing, usually post 4:00pm, I would opt for an aisle seat. I desired the availability of a quick exit at film’s end, and I might need a trip to the bathroom (my least favorite option) during the film. I would purchase no popcorn because the paper bags create too much disturbing noise and the clatter of chewing is so distracting. When I was much younger a bar of banana flavored Turkish taffy would satisfy, but I would smack it and crack it before anything occurred on the screen. But post-childhood and now, sitting peacefully alone (sometimes even when I was accompanied), I stare at the blank screen for a time. I relax and feel my anxieties melt away. These days before even the previews flash on the screen there happens a great amount of commerce up there: advertisements for goods and services, attended by overly loud voice-overs and music. Games, advertisements, more games, flash on the screen, anything to keep movie goers amused as if they had to be forever occupied! Quiet seems anathema and I miss the silence of the theater before the show begins. I am not interested in anything that goes on up there.  Usually I had carried reading materials, but today the constant and loud presentations on the screen disturbs and distracts my focus. I sit and try to shut out the noise. Ah, but then, at last, the previews begin to announce what is coming next to the big screen! I have always enjoyed the previews though of late very few of the previewed films seem to interest me. Previews are about anticipation that sometimes exceeds the actual film event. But like an aperitif before dinner, the previews whet my appetite for the film.

It was in those darkened rooms that I experienced peace. Even if the film, like The Sorrow and the Pity, was disturbing, (and I have seen many troubling films) my anxieties were for a time held at bay by the film, and I felt safe. The world remained out there but, ah, I remained untroubled in here. The movie theater was where I could sit alone in the dark and be not afraid. There were no demons in there, though sometimes a film portrayed them. But I knew that those demons were not in me and were contained by the nature of film. I remember once reading that the experience of the cinema was like the experience of the dream: viewed in the dark, while alone, with images appearing on the screen for my viewing and interpretation. Even sometimes for my delight. Like a dream the images appear without my effort or my control.

I go to the movies to be away from the world. Sometimes from the movies I find I can return to the world again.