Flickers of Light on the Other Side of that Wall
I began writing this essay about cinema in the wake of the pandemic a few weeks ago. Since then, the world flipped on its axis with yet another tragedy and civil unrest. In light of a revolution long overdue, the personal writings of a privileged Chicagoan seemed trivial in comparison. I hope, however, that these musings still resonate in both the context of that movement as well as the recovery during a global pandemic. Now more than ever is a time to remind ourselves about the importance of storytelling as a tool in understanding empathy and acknowledge the story in which we are currently living.
Way back in the before-fore (about four months ago), I was a self-employed freelancer and, as such, more used to bouts of minimal-to-no income than most. My paid work was primarily the result of camera and editing gigs that are tangental to my greater aspirations of finding sustainability as a filmmaker. I reside on the Northside of Chicago in a building owned by a ninety-year-old cinema palace. Similar to the act of filmmaking itself, little about living above a movie theatre is actually all that romantic, at least compared to The Shape of Water (I personally haven’t fallen in love with a sea creature yet). The water pressure isn’t always great and the stomping of my upstairs neighbor at 1AM is far from desired.
I suppose it took a global pandemic for me to appreciate the sublime symbolism of being an unknown filmmaker who would often find himself sitting alone in his apartment while a crowded theatre of as many as 700 people could be sitting in a dark room outside my window, facing my direction, watching a film. Brick, concrete, and flickers of light on a giant white screen the only things between us. Several months with that same view, knowing those seats are empty, made me realize how important spaces like these truly are.
As movie theaters begin reopening across the country with new safety measures in place, it is worth noting that however important these spaces are, they are not worth risking lives over. Physically gathering in a space to listen to stories is a tradition that isn’t going away anytime soon. It’s in our blood. Even if the flickers come far less often than 24 frames per second, they’re still there. When I go to the movie theatre, I think of Beowulf or The Iliad. A grizzled old man around a campfire telling a story. More flickers of light in the darkness. Movies are the evolution of this same tradition. It’s how we learn about the world around us and how we understand empathy. Albeit a fairly obvious metaphor, flickers of light in a dark room can literally guide us away from dark times. The more we embrace the importance of story, the more we can grow and evolve. I am optimistic for the eventual return of movie palaces but for now, maybe it’s best to continue reflecting on the stories we’ve told, our current one, and how we’re going to tell them in the future. Personally, I can wait for the new Christopher Nolan film. The medium may change, but stories will always be here.
Even before the pandemic, discussions on the death of the theatrical experience would pop up in a superfluous diatribe that’s almost as annoying as how we define the word “cinema.” I’ve always found the latter particularly silly as, in my mind, cinema is inherently a response to the medium itself, whether it affects one person or millions. Is that not the definition of all art? Can’t a new Marvel film be described as such, even with the dreaded asterisk of capitalist intent? Cinema can exist anywhere, whether it be a film produced by Martin Scorcese, Michael Bay, or even Tommy Wieseu. Who are we to judge your response to any art form? But I digress…
Not long ago, a study revealed that people’s heart beats begin to sync up when watching a performance in a theatre. I believe this is likely true with film as well. There is beauty in the togetherness, which is why the surrealists often equated the theatrical experience to that of dreaming: you enter a room, the lights go off, and a story unfolds before you. You dream together. Last summer, I directed a series of short documentaries in celebration of the Music Box Theatre (the aforementioned cinema of which I reside). In one of the videos, critic Jonathan Rosenbaum describes the theatrical experience as, “being alone and with other people at the same time.” I can think of no better way to describe this particular moment in time.
Many have used the “we are in the same storm, but we are not all in the same boat” metaphor to describe the pandemic. Applying that to cinema, one could say “we are in the same theatre…but we do not have the same seat.” The description could be expanded in extremis as it applies to the Black Lives Matter movement and every other aspect of American society: we think of ourselves as one large group made of many equal pieces yet fail to acknowledge how far that is from the truth. Too many people are stuck in the back row, unable to see the screen.
Ultimately, maybe we needed this time to reflect. We needed to understand what is important and what needs more work. We needed to protest and we needed to see what we’ve been doing wrong. As an out of work filmmaker, I am unable to safely tell stories in the way I would like to be doing. But that day, in some form or another, will come again. In the meantime, the best any of us can do is look around at the stories that surround us, even if they’re not in the theatre.
Though the emptiness of this new world feels overwhelming and often uncompromising, I hold out hope for the flickers of light on the other side of this wall, outside a window in a dark room. A place full of people dreaming the same dream. A place where we are alone and together at the same time.
