Skip to main content

Coronavirus Diary

The place I miss most is the Maplewood Cinema.

Many New York City screening rooms have a professional, impersonal vibe, and my new local cinema is not like that at all. My new cinema is more like the screening rooms I grew up with. It's a shit show. It's staffed by twelve-year-old kids; no movie can be screened before 4 pm, because the kids are doing their school work.

(I imagine I'm not the only mildly-depressed stay-at-home parent who craves a 1 pm Tuesday screening now and then.)

The Maplewood Cinema puts up film ads seemingly at random; advertising a particular movie is no guarantee that that movie will air in Maplewood, tomorrow or any day after that, even if the little plaque says, "Coming Soon!" I still eagerly await the chance to see the mediocre Glenn Close vehicle, "The Wife," once advertised on the Maplewood Cinema's walls, though I'm certain my local screens will never actually bring me that chance.

The twelve-year-olds at my cinema sometimes can't be bothered to match my ticket with the actual film I'm seeing; sometimes, they'll just hand me a printout for something entirely unrelated, and if I conscientiously object, they'll shrug and say, "It's fine." And it's a nice feeling to sit alone in an unheated room for two hours, with Octavia Spencer's "Ma," and to know that no one, really no one, is monitoring my behavior.

Right before the Maplewood Cinema caved to Covid--right before the shut-down--local cinema executives planned to screen Annette Bening's "Hope Gap." Well, *maybe* this was the plan. There's definitely a "Coming Soon!" ad for "Hope Gap," growing sadder and sadder by the day, its colors fading. This is like a parody of an indie-film campaign. Annette Bening looks forlorn in the photo, and you just know that her town, "Hope Gap," is also a metaphor for her inner state; you know there's a troubling "gap" in the "hope" that once sustained her, in happier times. And you know that that gap isn't really a crisis; it's nothing that, say, a wise, tender Bill Nighy couldn't fix. I think about this movie everyday, as I pass the cinema, on my way to mail a card that doesn't need mailing; this is my ritual, to keep myself afloat. I'd very much like to see "Hope Gap."

When the cinema does resuscitate itself, if that day ever comes, I have a feeling I'll be first in line. Will I finally have a chance to see the live-action "Mulan"? Or that Amy Schumer-ish Pete Davidson vehicle? It doesn't really matter what the particular narrative is. I just need a filmed story pumped into my veins--pumped soon. An addict is an addict is an addict.

These are the days of our lives.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...