Back to the Movies
“Are you still watching?”
The question flashes on screen. Before, we could brush it off as a mostly innocent, slightly cutting query. Now, after sixteen months of a global pandemic which saw seemingly all systems of power and order collapse around us, the question assumes new dimension and intrigue. The world went inside and suddenly there were no longer any filmgoers; there was no going anywhere, frankly. Instead we boarded ourselves in, and the silver screen was whatever we had in front of us, be it our phones, laptops, or TVs.
As it always has, cinema responded to its latest death knell by persisting. Passionate filmmakers delivered their work in creative ways around the world (others said, “How about next year?”), festivals once remote were now a click away, and we the people, from the casual viewer to the avid cinephile, continued watching. We watched as best as we could while streaming services competed for our attention and subscriptions, and algorithms sapped our enthusiasm, spinning forth more of the same titles, IP, and high-flying kicks we’ve come to know all too well. In the current moment, big-money studios are actively trying to shape film into something that functions more like a traditional business product, a piece of content that can be controlled with ease and made with the sole intention of keeping us consumers whether we’re sheltering in place or not.
Theaters sat empty for much of the last year, and they certainly missed their crowds. The work required to remain open and relevant so as to one day return for in-person screenings has been extremely challenging and not always successful. If not for the effort of those loyal to their theaters and the art, there would have likely been countless other significant and cultural losses.
This spirit of camaraderie and appreciation shows what can be accomplished when we unite intelligently and safely for a cause. It also reveals just how much people felt the absence of the moviegoing experience in their lives. The experience of going to the movies is a collective dream we all share as an audience; nowhere outside of the theater is cinema’s magic so secure and surrounding. In the dark room, in the light of the big screen, it can be just you and any given fantasy.
As theaters begin to reopen and restrictions are lifted, we can begin to take our places again, seated alongside friends or strangers, and find fresh joys in the world on screen. There is a simplicity that is a part of going to the movies; we can settle elsewhere for a while, we can watch without any prompt, and we can leave distractions at the door only to return made better. The celebration and preservation of filmgoing will be ongoing, but the best reasons for returning to the theater and committing to making them as accessible as possible, with as much selection as possible, are those personal. Below are some testimonies to the raw power that is going to the movies. As we look back, we can still feel the warm glow on our faces, still see the worlds previously unknown drawn intimately over us in swathes of light and darkness. Looking ahead, and by returning to those rooms, we are saying, “Yes, we are still here and we are still watching, and we care what we watch.” All that is required is a ticket and a vaccination, then you can find a dream of your choosing.
—forward by Dante Hay—
“I haven’t seen a movie in a long time.” — BFI Southbank
Belvedere Rd, London SE1 8XT, United Kingdom
After months of pandemic-induced closures, my first trip back to the cinema in May 2021 was a screening of Tsai Ming-liang’s 2003 film Goodbye, Dragon Inn at the BFI Southbank, London. I was, to be perfectly honest, somewhat apprehensive about going; this was my first time at an indoor event in ages, and it was a sold-out screening – meaning, as full as it could be with social distancing in place. Two factors convinced me to go. Firstly, the strange poetry of seeing a film about moviegoing itself; Goodbye, Dragon Inn is set in a cinema. And secondly, because the film was being introduced by Peter Strickland – a director whose films I love – as part of the BFI’s “Dream Palace” season, for which filmmakers were asked to select the one film they’d most like to see on the big screen.
As it turned out, Strickland’s introduction would prove as memorable as the film itself. In a series of hilarious confessions, Strickland admitted that Goodbye, Dragon Inn wasn’t his first choice of film; that in fact he hadn’t seen the film at all and had picked it on a whim because the Wikipedia entry made it sound interesting; that he’d purchased a DVD copy and tried to watch it at home, but had been repeatedly distracted by his young children (at this point, he brandished the DVD case and started reading from the enclosed booklet); that he had seriously contemplated lying about all this so as not to damage his cinephile credentials; and finally that he wasn’t going to stay for the screening because he had somewhere more important to be. The director promised he’d get round to watching it later in the summer, and sheepishly shuffled out the fire exit.
It was a perfect opening – you could practically hear the audience deflating, once the giggles had subsided – to what turned out to be a perfect movie. Goodbye, Dragon Inn takes place over the course of a single rainy night at the Fu-Ho Grand, a large, borderline-dilapidated urban theatre screening the 1967 wuxia epic Dragon Inn on the eve of what a sign outside optimistically describes as a “Temporary Closure”. A brief prologue shows the cinema in its heyday, packed out for a showing of the same film, but at the turn of the millennium the Fu-Ho Grand has only a handful of patrons, most of whom drift in and out of the auditorium.
Actually, most of the “action” – glacially paced, this is hardly a film about things happening – takes place in the box office, projection booth, bathroom, as well as the labyrinthine collection of corridors and storerooms. Two characters emerge as the film’s focal points: a ticket seller with a leg brace, who slowly makes her way around the theatre in search of the elusive projectionist, and a hapless Japanese tourist looking to get laid; the cinema is, we quickly learn, now primarily a cruising spot for gay men. The only audience members who seem entirely invested in the film are Miao Tien and Shih Chun, the now-elderly stars of Dragon Inn, as well as Miao’s young grandson.
Clearly, Goodbye, Dragon Inn is an elegy for the cinema, and in Tsai’s hands the movie theatre becomes a ghostly space, a space of phantom desire – desire for sex, but also for companionship, and for the ambivalent sense of community afforded by (disappearing?) moviegoing rituals. For all its obvious melancholy, it’s also a warm and unexpectedly funny film that seems enamoured by the idea that even in its dying days the cinema continues to make room for society’s outsiders. The sense of loss isn’t exactly that the Fu-Ho Grand is far from its former glory – it’s that it soon might not be there at all.
Seeing Goodbye, Dragon Inn earlier this summer presented a kind of paradox: there we all were, watching a film about the supposed decline of the cinema, at a sold-out screening at the recently renovated BFI Southbank. The nice, over-easy thing to say would be that the film’s pessimism has proved misguided. But the cinemagoing experience is under threat; all the more noticeably since it’s been brought into competition with streaming, whose primary goal seems to be the flattening of all screen media, art or otherwise, into “content”. The BFI is one of the only cinemas in London still likely to show a film like Goodbye, Dragon Inn – let alone the original Dragon Inn – and the pandemic has put theatres, multiplex chain and tiny independent alike, in a more precarious situation than ever before.
The film, and my experience of watching it after months of closures, drilled home the importance of the cinema itself, and not just because Goodbye, Dragon Inn is particularly suited to the sensory deprivation afforded by the movie theatre. It made me realise more clearly than before that a film is never just what’s playing on the screen: it’s picking your favourite spot, getting comfy as the trailers play; it’s excitedly asking “what did you think?” as the credits roll; it’s the kid loudly crunching on popcorn, the man with the freakishly loud laugh, the woman with the massive hair who sits in front of you right as the movie starts; it’s the minor scuffle that breaks out when one audience member complains that the film is in black and white (NYC, 2019, The Lighthouse); it’s the first/last date you went on, the kiss in the dark – or maybe you were just cruising. It’s the snatched glances at strangers, all grinning because the director is telling us he hasn’t watched the film he’s introducing.
—Theo Rollason
“In A Lonely Place” — The Beacon Cinema
4405 Rainier Ave S, Seattle, WA 98118
Theaters are commonly a social affair. They’re somewhere you go with friends and loved ones to share a cinematic experience in good company, they cultivate avid post-film discussion, and maybe it’ll spawn a memory you’ll reflect fondly upon down the road. These shared experiences are in part what theaters do best, and in my short time on this Earth, I have had many of them. That being said, I also love being the fucking loser at the movies all by himself.
Every cinephile has encountered this scenario at some point or another; we simply have too many movies to see that are of no interest to the pluralities of a friend group … well, at least mine. While I can rally the troops for a drunken, late-night showing of Cats, it is much more difficult to convince those same people to see the latest restoration of Elem Klimov’s Come and See, let alone the latest oddity at the independent cinema. Instead of missing the film, sometimes you just gotta go it alone if you plan on seeing it at all.
My favorite cinematic experience is an ode to this form of moviegoing, particularly at a time in my life where such a practice became a regular habit. Caught in the post-grad milieu of Benjamin Braddock and in the throes of a nasty depression, the fall of 2019 was a particularly lonely place for me. I was lost, often adrift from the person I once knew and in desperate need of a constant to alleviate a pervasive sense of disassociation and loss. If cinema has proven effective at anything it’s certainly escapism. In my position, a break from my mental lockbox was almost always desired, and while the act itself is not the healthiest of coping mechanisms, it was my vice of choice and I chose to frequently do it at The Beacon Cinema.
For some, there might be shame in going to the theater alone, as if the public display of lonesomeness is an indication of a personal failing or a lacking character. In other ways, seeing couples or friends gather at a movie you’ve come solo to can spur envy. But in a place like The Beacon, where there are only fifty seats, the distance between strangers lessens. Every person in seat forms a true, collective audience, and often by necessity of their sold out screenings, you sit shoulder to shoulder with someone who endeavored to see the same film you did.
From The Cranes Are Flying to Death Race 2000, their repertory showings were as cathartic for me as they were social. In my isolation, I often forgot just how much I enjoyed the presence of others until I attended a midnight showings of Jason X or John Water’s Female Trouble. Those experiences made me feel connected to someone or something, and as clichéd as it may seem to sing the praises of the rejuvenating powers of cinema, even the smallest of sentiments mattered when most of my days were spent lying in bed. To me, it made all the difference.
As noted, going to the movies is inherently an act of escapism. What I find so consequential about the experience, however, is after the film is over there is something learned and something gained, good film or bad. It could be something as simple as a kernel of wisdom or as meaningful as an inalienable truth about the human condition. I can’t say every theatrical experience carries that kind of weight, but what I know is that every time I went to The Beacon, I walked away enriched by effects both communal and personal. And with those pieces, I could start to rebuild myself one day at a time … one movie at a time.
—Greg Arietta
Talk to her at the Cine Doré theater
C. de Sta. Isabel, 3, 28012 Madrid, Spain
When the summer swelter on busy Spanish streets became too much for my sister and I to handle, we decided that a bright wall and dark room was where we could beat the heat. Through a tiny window, in a tight Madrid alleyway, we handed over three euros each to see a film at Spain’s historic Cine Doré theater. The two-screen flagship theater is a common shooting location of Pedro Almodovar’s films, and it just so happened that our travels overlapped with a retrospective of his at the theater.
Our stubs indicated our showtime for Talk to Her took place immediately. In a rush, we hurried past the stocky and ornate vermillion art deco facade and hastily grabbed our seats under the striking cerulean floral ceiling of the main theater moments before the lights dimmed. Pinhole lighting remained illuminated on the ceiling in the dark, forming a small cosmos above the silver screen. A lengthy, dialogue-less black and white short film set the stage. And by the time the opening credits of the feature were nearly complete, I noticed two things:
One, what Spanish my sister and I retained from our high school classes was not going to suffice for the duration of the film. And two, we were in the wrong theater entirely.
The pre-credit sequence of the feature had no mention of Almodovar or any actors from Talk To Her. The film playing before us was set on a beach with the vibe of a sandy and tenuous family reunion by way of a 1990’s direct-to-video release. I caught my sister’s attention and mouthed that this wasn’t what we planned on seeing. She pantomimed back that we couldn’t switch theaters as Talk to Her was likely a half hour into its run by now. We were stuck. Cool and out of the sun, but stuck.
Based on the audience reaction around us though, our mystery movie was incredibly funny. As the first wave of laughter rolled in, I stole another glance at my sister and shrugged. She shrugged back. We were out of the loop, but turned back to the screen with an unspoken agreement to make the best of it.
Without being sure of the dialogue, following along with the film became a puzzle of reading actors’ body language, being emotionally nudged by the score, and being acutely aware of the certain vibration a cinematic audience puts out into the air. It was like stealing a glance at a fellow passenger’s movie screen on an airplane, but with the whole flight reacting. For my sister and I, it was a new way to watch a film, a wondrous experience born out of our own ignorance and an attempt to tap into the jubilation this audience was experiencing.
We never figured out which film we eventually saw, but when I think about the quaint story of my sister and I at Cine Doré now, it only highlights to me the importance of how we watch movies. When folks congregate and embark on a shared story together, it’s an indescribable feeling, a feeling of unbridled joy and shared kinship for the form. There’s just no substitute for moments like this, sitting under the celestial ceiling of the Cine Doré and feeling the joy of strangers emanating from all around.
-Kevin Conner
Portrait of a Lady on Fire at SIFF Egyptian
805 E Pine St, Seattle, WA 98122
No theater experience transcends the first time I saw Celine Sciamma’s masterpiece Portrait of a Lady on Fire — an experience that, to this day, I relive whenever I watch the film. In the week leading up to Valentine’s Day, cinephiles and couples converged on the SIFF Egyptian for a late night screening of a film critics had been swooning over all awards season. My friends and I were among them, and with each other by our side, warming each other from the winter air we had just escaped, we took our seats. The theater was packed. The air, practically stale. But the excitement was undeniably tangible. Widespread murmurs filled the venue in heightened anticipation of the unknown and excited by the chance to fall in love.
Then, as the first white frame projected onto the screen, the chatter turned to stillness, and quickly, one could feel the film capturing everyone with its embrace. Gasps as a ghostly figure appeared, audible exhales after a tension-filled exchange, sniffles and “aahs” at a particular page reveal. In that moment, the act of watching the silver screen felt singular yet communal. The emotions emanating from that screen felt uniquely my own, but somehow, unified by those around me, as if the aura in the room was an intimate hug. As the credits rolled, the yearning was overwhelmingly palpable, a collective exhalation felt and enacted upon us as we all stirred in silence.
It was only when the lights came on and I saw the reactions of those around me that this particular screening cemented itself in the pantheon of my most memorable theatrical experiences. Silent awes and stares to the right of me. Tears from the women who had forced my friend to buy them a new drink to my left. A couple right in front of me lovingly whispering affirmations to one another. And me, in the center of it all, heartbroken and uplifted at the chance to relive the feeling of love. The collective experience of intimate wonder, awe, and affection inside that theater that evening was enough to thaw the frosty winter night; such an experience is one I can’t help but remember fondly.
--Cynthia Li
Uncut Gems at The EDINBURGH Filmhouse
88 Lothian Rd, Edinburgh EH3 9BZ, United Kingdom
On one of Edinburgh’s busiest roads, nestled between a burger restaurant and an office block, there’s an independent cinema with an international reputation for showing outstanding cinema called the Filmhouse. It has a relatively unassuming presence aside the thoroughfare of Lothian Road. The building used to be a church, but you wouldn’t be able to tell by looking at the Georgian townhouse facade from the street. It has three screens inside, the biggest of which called Cinema 1 which has curved rows of raked seating that face a curtain framed screen. It’s not a big theatre and the seats are themselves small, old, and tightly packed together like church pews—fitting, really, considering the building’s history— but it is an endearing cinema all the same.
In the second week of January 2020, I visited the Filmhouse for what would end up being the last time ‘pre-pandemic.’ The Safdie Brothers’ latest film, Uncut Gems, had garnered lots of attention from international film festivals, and having massively enjoyed Good Time, I was eager for this next installment of Safdie brilliance. It was due to come out on Netflix that Friday, but select cinemas were showing it on the big screen in the run-up to its release. The Filmhouse was one of them, and they were doing one of their special £5-a-ticket deals for the screening. Naturally, me and all of my friends got tickets.
When we arrived at the Filmhouse on the evening of the screening, the foyer was heaving with people. It was a sold-out house and Cinema 1 would be at full capacity. My friends and I got pints from the café bar and queued up the stairs leading to the theatre to take our seats. Once inside, we filed into one of the central rows of the theatre — shoulder to shoulder with one another, the room humming with anticipation. I recognised lots of people in the audience: in front of me were two of my university lecturers who, like my friends and I, had obviously come straight from campus and were enjoying a drink and some pre-film conversation. Soon enough, every seat in the theatre was filled and the lights dimmed. There was still a hubbub of chatter throughout the advertisements, but as soon as the main title began, a reverent silence fell.
It became clear in the first few minutes —after a sequence that transports the viewer from an Ethiopian mine through the black opal celestial hyperspace and into Howard Ratner’s colon—that we were in for a ride. From the subtly stressful mumbled dialogue in Howie’s New York jewelry store, to the countless high-intensity, touch-and-go moments punctuating the film, there was tension from the onset that cultivated a collective, edge-of-your-seat aura throughout the theater. We experienced this tumult together, as an audience, communally holding our breath and audibly exhaling in unison during moments of reprieve. It felt like what every good cinema should be.
I remember when the credits began to roll to the sound of ‘L’Amour Toujours’ by Gigi D’Agostino, a ripple of laughter emanated across the audience— a kind of exclamation of relief more than anything—and for the first time in over two hours, everyone tried to get their bearings on the real world again. We were all totally in awe at what we had just seen. I felt so disoriented; everyone else, the same. Delight mixed with pent-up stress and total bewilderment seemed to be the overall atmosphere as the house lights came up. Most people stayed through to the end of the credits, but as we trailed down the theatre stairs and out onto the street, I felt somehow still in a world of the Safdie Brothers’ creation. Lothian Road was loud with cars and bright with the neon restaurant signs akin to the cinematic universe to which we had all just witnessed.
Like everyone else, I have sorely missed going to the cinemas for the past year-and-a-half. Watching stuff from home just hasn’t felt right. I want to be crammed in between lots of strangers to watch the latest releases; not sat on my own. I’m grateful things are looking more optimistic these days and that local independent cinemas like Filmhouse made it through the pandemic. Without them, there could never be a theatrical experience like I had with Uncut Gems.
— Ivy Pottinger-Glass