I was going to start this piece off by
addressing my dedicated readers, but that would be a misnomer.
Indeed, I have some friends and colleagues who seek out what I have
to say, to which I am flattered, but in order to be dedicated, there
must first be something to dedicate oneself to, and the fact is that
I've barely written much of anything for almost a year, and the
writer's block had started kicking in well before that. One of my
editors offered, some time back, that it seemed like I just didn't
love writing about movies anymore, and he was right, no matter how
much I didn't want to believe it.
I don't intend to dwell on this, but
instead to embrace it as some sort of necessity in my personal life.
I moved to Pittsburgh following my mother's passing, and for all of
what seemed like the right reasons, I moved to Denver earlier this
year. It didn't take long to realize that I need to go back, for
reasons I couldn't see except from afar. I'm comfortable with this,
but it doesn't mean the temporary limbo I've found myself in is any
less strenuous. For now, though, I'm optimistic, and I trust in
patience and my gut, and that they're pulling me in the right
direction. They have so far.
Denver it is for now, and as I so often
have, I've found some refuge from life's more weathering aspects at
the movies. Work, exercise, and sleep (even more of a necessity than
usual as I'm trying to kick caffeine for good) take up most of my
time, otherwise, and at this point, there's no sense in trying to
maintain much sense of objectivity. I've been a fan of the Alamo
Drafthouse since a trifecta of visits I made with a friend to one of
their Austin locations in the summer of 2010, at which I was blessed
with the opportunity to see the now cult-certified Miami
Connection in its effective public re-premiere. When I
recently learned that Film Freak Central critic and friend Walter
Chaw had become the general manager of the new Littleton location, I
was ecstatic, and seeing this location was near the top of my list of
things to do once I got to Denver.
Walter proved to be just as affecting
and generous in person. We first met at a further nexus, of sorts,
for yours truly. One Matt Zoller Seitz was attending the screenings
of two films in a cross-promotion of his books on the films of Wes
Anderson and the not-yet-published Oliver Stone Experience. Matt's
presence in both the film world and my life, and as someone who has
also experienced great loss, can't be put in words that I think do it
justice. He's been like a personal lighthouse, or Yoda, perhaps. We
spent the night talking about the films being screened, The
Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou and Natural Born
Killers, and also “Bojack Horseman” and the
yet-unreleased Jurassic World, and how fucking
hard and great life can be. Whatever forces are or are not at work in
the universe, it felt like exactly where I needed to be, wherever
else I'd go from there.
That was the best Alamo experience I've
had so far, and I don't expect it to be topped. But one of my first –
the opening night of Mad Max: Fury Road – came
close, and that the movie itself represents a sort of encapsulation
of my life right now (Charlize Theron helped me see the Furiosa in my
own life, and patriarchy just sucks, seriously) makes this all feel
like a memoir chapter just waiting to be written. It's certainly
defined my summer. To make some perfect even better, opening night of
Fury Road was screened with one of the Alamo's
famous multi-course, beer-paired meals served throughout the movie.
Black bean pork chili, served with tortillas and – I love this –
in a can, because Mad Max.
You'd be fair in thinking that the
servers walking about during the movie would be terribly distracting,
but on the whole, I find they're not. In the dozens of visits I've
made to the theater since, I keep experiencing moments where my drink
or check seems to have suddenly apparated, because I wasn't even
aware the runner had stopped by. Tip them well. They deserve it.
You know the moment? Yeah, you remember
it. When Nux has chased Furiosa into the storm, and Max grabs the
flare at the last second, and the two vehicles collide, and the flare
drops, and expires. I get chills just thinking about it. That moment
proved that the Alamo was a special place because, for the next 45
seconds, the movie is essentially silent, and so was the audience. No
talking. No whispering, which is also talking. No clanking glasses or
silverware in a theater full of delicious food and beer that had
already been served to its patrons. Other audiences I've seen it with
have somehow been noisier, with only their asses in regular movie
theater seats and popcorn and Skittles as their instruments. Some great
feeb even made an MST3K-esque joke once, at a
second run theater, about Max's car insurance going up (which
literally makes zero sense in context). Not us. We were in rapture. I
had found my place of worship.
The diversity and emphasis on the
quality of the films that play at Alamo are well worth what is, in my
mind, the most significant investment I have to make when visiting it
– the time. 40 minutes' drive each way, if I'm lucky, and the
necessary return drive limits one's alcohol choices, not that a
second feature with a quesadilla isn't a bad way to sober up (and
hey, I thought Trainwreck was kind of awesome, too).
In the further interest of full
disclosure, I feel that I should add that while I have been a paying
customer at the Alamo, I have also been treated as a guest on a
number of occasions. My budget at the time of Matt Seitz's visit did
not allow for me to attend both screenings; I committed to Life
Aquatic, no offense to Mr. Stone and one of
the best films of the 90s. Walter had me as a guest at Natural
Born Killers, which also came with three beers and an
amazing cheeseburger that they then replaced with a fresh cheeseburger when I asked for a doggy bag! It was, no doubt, one of the great nights of my moviegoing life, and an oasis in my own personal desert, and without Walter's generosity,
it likely wouldn't have amounted to a third of what it did.
I assume that it's stating the obvious
that the moviegoing experience kind of blows these days, mainly, if
you're not careful. I saw a Terrence Malick film with a general
audience once; never again (which is to say, no evening shows at the
cineplex, which is where I saw his The New World.
I similarly refuse to go to a horror movie on an opening night
anymore, although the exception I made for It Follows
at Pittsburgh's Hollywood Dormont theater was carefully vetted and
ultimately rewarding one, because great horror films rarely play
better than they do with a mostly full and respectful audience at a
professionally maintained, classy theater. (If you get a chance,
their 35mm copy of The Rocky Horror Picture Show
is beautiful). The Mile High Horror Film Festival is next week, and
I'm silly with excitement. Typical horror movie crowds
notwithstanding (words I hate to write, for I love the genre so), I
feel like I'll be able to trust my fellow patrons. It took three
months of regular visits for me to see someone on their phone there,
during a movie, and the offender was quickly removed after myself and
others had already complained. That level of infrequency is, as far
as I'm concerned, a miracle. But maybe it isn't. It only makes sense
that great business courts great clientele, and Alamo has both.
There's so much going on at the Alamo
that I frequently have to pick and choose, not just because of the
needs of my wallet, but because the screenings are literally
overlapping. Alas, you can't do everything you want, film or
otherwise, a fact that has resulted in a much more humble and
rewarding life since I've taken it to heart. What Alamo guarantees,
however, is that there will always be something awesome there,
whenever you can go, and as a proponent of film exhibition,
screenings of Chinatown, The Dark
Crystal, Grace of My Heart, Do
the Right Thing, Time Bandits, O
Brother, Where Art Thou?, Creature from the
Black Lagoon (in 3D!), Scanners,
The Abyss, Never Been Kissed,
and an amazing genre oddity known as The Devil Fetus,
among others, on 35mm, have been a great boon to my soul. This coming
month sees a lot of great horror fare on the format, from The
Changeling to Carnival of Souls to
Antichrist. I wish I lived closer; it's the
largest contributor to my odometer, by a walk.
To brings things full circle, the
melancholy heart of the matter of my life now is, I don't feel at
home in Denver. My family and loved ones are far away, and my family,
as am I, are getting older, and as much as I'm glad to have made a
change in my life, I don't think this is it. It reminds me of Matt
Seitz's blog The House Next Door, and more specifically, the adage
from which it takes its name: Sometimes in life, you have to drive
around the block backwards in order to get to the house next door. I
think that that's what I'm doing.
Until this leg of the journey ends, the
Alamo feels like home – as all good movie theaters do. Every Alamo
location I've been to is second-to-none by any standard, and the fact
that a good friend is holding the reigns to this particular location
only makes it better that I'm lucky enough to be there this much at
this time of my life. If justice prevails, there will be one in every
major city before three more Star Wars movies
are released, at which point you can all tell me how right I am.
