The First Duty

"A person's gotta find his own answers.  We're alone... each of us.  Each in a different way."
--Mrs. Callum (Judith Anderson), Pursued (1947, dir. Raoul Walsh)

"If you would learn to speak all tongues and conform to the customs of all nations, if you would travel farther than all travellers, be naturalized in all climes, and cause the Sphinx to dash her head against a stone, even obey the precept of the old philosopher, and Explore thyself."
--Walden, Henry David Thoreau

 

     Friday, April 27th, 2007.  Late in the day, I stagger into Plumorchard Gap Shelter in northern Georgia and sink down with relief onto the lip of the lean-to.  Unfastening the chest and hip belts, I slide out of my backpack, free at last of its food-and-snack-laden weight: suddenly, I feel as light as air!  My shoulders and hips ache, my feet and ankles groan with pain, the layer of sweat on my skin mingles with the chill, early evening air.

     I am nine days into a planned thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail.  After staying in Hiawassee last night, I started out from the trailhead at Dick's Creek Gap this afternoon covering about four-and-a-half miles.  At that time, I was clean and tidy: I could smell the soap from the motel on my skin.  I can't smell it anymore... just the bracing odor of sweat and dirt and body.

     My breathing has slowed down now and, sufficiently cooled, I put on my long-sleeved blue shirt and begin making preparations for the night: getting out my stove and food bags, stowing my backpack on a hook in the shelter, and tossing my sleeping bag and pad into the voluminous upper loft.  I look up as I hear the sound of footsteps approaching.  A hiker, short and compact, round glasses and curly hair, comes huffing down the trail, red-faced: Blake, from Roanoke, is a nobo (northbounder) like me.  He is a pot-smoker and we usually lag behind together; we have become friends in the last few days.  He, too, drops his pack in the shelter and soon has sparked up a bowl.  Other hikers roll in - some we know, some we don't.  There are even some "weekend warriors," a group of lawyers from Atlanta who have come out for a section hike on the A.T.  They are generous with their extra snacks and a flask of bourbon and have even built a fire - a luxury that most exhausted thru-hikers are unwilling to expend the energy for!  Looking them over, I cannot help thinking about a particular movie.  "Haven't you guys ever seen Deliverance?" I ask with a smirk.  They laugh.

     The air is festive.  Because all northbound hikers will pass into North Carolina tomorrow, our first state line crossing, we behave with a decided swagger, whether earned or not; the whole world appears kind and forgiving.  Aside from the need for dinner and a place to throw our bodies down for the night, we seemingly want for nothing.  Yet, beneath our bluster, we keep our thoughts close: for my part, I have had a particular task in mind all day....

     The group around the fire dwindles and dwindles until it is just me, staring into the embers.  Ever the night person I am!  Finally, amply chilled, I ascend the ladder to the loft, flashlight in hand.  Somewhat to my surprise, I see that I have the whole level to myself.  I climb into my sleeping bag and, under a pool of white light, write in my journal.  I soon hear the sounds - skittering and darting - which I have come to expect from a shelter at night: the mice are out.  My first few nights hiking, these very same noises kept me nervously awake but, now, nine days in, I'm becoming somewhat aloof to the racket!  Should I whip my flashlight around fast enough, I can usually catch a glimpse of one of the culprits, their tiny eyes glowing - reflecting back the light, their evil, cute little faces gnawing on something-or-other, whiskers whisking.  If one can get past the noisy rodents, moon beams faintly illuminating the Georgia night outside, it's rather cozy up here in this loft!  I finish my journal-writing and get to the real task of this night: the long-delayed composition of my top 100 film list.

 

     In spite of my best efforts, this last year-and-a-half, since the onset of the covid-19 pandemic, has tested my limits, physically, emotionally, and psychologically.  I started this blog, in fact, to grapple with a world which suddenly seemed unfamiliar, lacking many of the rituals of life that I hold dear, particularly movie screenings.

     I have never felt so despondent and depressed over such a long period of time.  My dreams have been affected: they seem less social and are often suffused with anxiety.  Has the lack of direct contact - the obscuring of faces and social distancing - extended into the dream-work?  A few moths ago, I dreamed that I was in a cinema lobby with some friends.  I entered a theater and discovered that, grotesquely, it was essentially a hallway, long and tunnel-like, the walls of cement and only just wide enough to seat three people across shoulder-to-shoulder!  A movie was playing and it was dark.  Though I sensed that the theater was packed I could not make out individual forms, just general shapes or outlines: the details of personhood had seemingly been sucked up into the tenebrous gloom.  I somehow managed to climb into an empty seat but, surrounded by faceless humanity, claustrophobic panic soon overtook me and I bolted.

     Film has been a bastion of strength for me throughout my life and - to be without that safety net - has been demoralizing.  My interest level in movies has retreated to a bare minimum level, barely registering a pulse.  This sense of disassociation from film makes me feel odd, lost, and out-of-place.

     Things are improving, no doubt, but, due to a few factors (mainly involving the rate of vaccinations in the population and my own comfort level), I still have not returned to the movie theater.  The end may be in sight but... who knows?  If you had told a past version of myself that I would go for a year-and-a-half without a visit to a movie theater, I would have replied quite simply that it would be because I am dead.

     If you have read my previous post, Movie Theater in My Head, you might think that this current pandemic is the first extended period in my life that I have gone without movie-going.  That is not entirely true, nor is this the first time that I have struggled with depression.

       I am at a low ebb in the early months of 2007.  After over a year of telling friends and family that I will attempt a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail and mulling over the task in theory, I am now - in the depths of cold and unforgiving winter - face-to-face with the reality and sense just how completely and totally over-matched I am by the physical undertaking.  Typically, I greet the approach of spring with anticipation and relief but, this year, the warming of the air is an hourglass sifting away, inexorably drawing me toward the point of no return.  The problem I faced was that - as an obsessive thinker - I was trying to anticipate all possible eventualities in an undertaking with infinite variables.  Without realizing it, in my frantic bid to cover all bases, I was pawning my number-one asset in stressful and difficult situations: my levelheadedness.  As I packed and re-packed my backpack in the living room during the days leading up to my departure, growing increasingly frustrated with how everything fit, Charlie, our calico cat, merely gazed at me sleepily from the couch through half-closed lids - her calm demeanor contrasting with mine and underlining just how desperate my situation was becoming.  It was easy to see that - in a few weeks or even days - she would still be laying in that same sunbeam while... I?  I would be who-knows-where... in a world of shit, no doubt.

     And it was true, my panicky thinking foretold an anxious and hellish first few weeks with just about everything going wrong that I could have imagined: I left my A.T. guide book in the shuttle on the way to the approach trail (how's that for getting off on the wrong foot!); my flashlight batteries started dying by the second night, forcing me to literally feel around in the dark (resulting in a hilarious and embarrassing scene one night where I dropped a bowl of ramen noodles right next to a troop of Boy Scouts making dinner!); my water filter barely worked, requiring sometimes over a half-hour to purify enough water for dinner (I never figured out what the problem was but it was on clearance... shoulda known better!); I struggled to operate my stove, requiring numerous re-lights and burned finger-tips before I would finally get it going (all the worse, of course, because I was starving while this was happening); my pack (bought impulsively online) was not fitted for me and hurt my shoulders and back terribly; I wore knee-high gaiters and carried an extra set of clothes and dishes (why?!); one of my two water bottles leaked (yikes!); and, finally, after mailing home a $150 pair of boots because they blistered my feet, I found myself hiking in a pair of Teva sandals that I bought at the Goodwill in Clinton, Connecticut for $2... ironic!  I cringe now to think back on some of the gear I carried and the decisions that I made; it's no wonder that a hiker friend who met me on my first day would later confide that his first impression was: "Nice guy... but he'll never make it."  I can't blame him, at all: I was the definition of a naive rookie.

     In the midst of my early struggles to get the hang of backpacking, I was depressed, moody, and home-sick.  At my lowest moments, I felt that I had made a grave error in coming all this way only to realize that I was completely out of my element.  In addition, I missed the movies terribly... and it was precisely for this reason that I seized upon the love of movies to get me through.  In my desperation in 2007, at the age of 28, I sensed that, where one cannot yet penetrate or go, cinema can operate like a beacon, moving forward "like trains in the night" in Truffaut's Day for Night.  I had thought about making a top movie list many times before and, now, if there was ever a moment, this was it.

       List-making is a way to make the immense or infinite seem familiar and accessible.  It is an art-form and, like art itself, it is defined by constraint.  In fact, one could say that a list is constraint epitomized.  

     I attempted my first top film list at an early age and it was filled with the delights of my youth (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of the Ooze, anyone?!).  Once I started seriously getting into film in eighth grade, though, I scoured lists made by different people, including those by my mom and uncle.  Arriving in New York City in 2001, in my early twenties, I began encountering top film lists everywhere: in magazines and newspapers and those circulated by my friends.  A top 100 list seemed appropriate for me but I was naive and still learning: I lacked confidence and didn't feel ready.  It was doubly frustrating because I was absorbing so much so quickly: I wanted to give back but I didn't yet know how.  I was a speaker who has not yet gained a voice; I received but could not yet transmit.  In other words, I needed to reverse the polarity in my being!  With hindsight I would realize that I as yet lacked two things to make a decent list: time - to think things through - and experience - I hadn't suffered enough and, therefore, needed to grow up.

     Then, just like that, it happened: I had plenty of time on my hands to think and mull things over and, additionally, I was experiencing and suffering plenty, which put me into just the right frame of mind!  After all, people regularly refer to top or essential lists as their "desert island" picks - the tendency to list favorites bound up in the very idea of suffering, perhaps as a way to stave off, or get through, hard times.  

     So, for someone like me who had learned so much but who lacked motivation, what better way could there be to generate a really honest list than to actually put myself on that desert island?

     I pull out a small notebook and I write long into the night, the beam of the flashlight dancing as it keeps pace with my pen.  "Vertigo, Rear Window, North by Northwest, Psycho, The Birds,... uh... Rebecca, Strangers on a Train, Shadow of a Doubt.  Let's see... oh!  Notorious!"  The light occasionally attracts a dive-bombing moth or two, forcing me to swat them away or turn the switch off, briefly swallowing me up into the night.  I am iron-willed and steely in my determination; I am nocturnal... for a while, anyway.  Eventually, around three in the morning, my eyelids become very, veeeryyy heavy and I click off the flashlight, lapsing into deep sleep. 

     In a hypnopompic state the following morning, still half-asleep, I easily reach and surpass 100 films and the titles just continue to come.  The list has now become an exercise in judgment-making: in order to admit a movie, essentially, another must be pushed out and, therefore, priorities and values must be established and weighed.

     Just as my experience with hiking has only begun, so the top 100 film list is in its infancy.  I continue brainstorming, trying to figure out what I may have forgotten, stopping in the middle of the trail, if necessary, to jot down a title, meditating on it in the moments before sleep and after waking, thinking about it while eating, sleeping, drinking, dreaming, walking, talking.  Part of the enjoyment for me is pulling most of the information for the list (title, director(s), year) from memory and, when not possible, improvising with the sources available to me.  For example, in late May, while on a computer at a hotel in Erwin, Tennessee, I look up a few pieces of information which have eluded me up to that point, including what year was Pickpocket made and who directed Sorry, Wrong Number (1959 and Anatole Litvak, duh!).  Preoccupying myself with the list becomes a most beloved ritual, a way to jointly distract and remind me of (distant) home: a defiant shriek of fervor and obsessive adulation in the midst of maddening pursuit.

     When the world is unfamiliar, we must make it familiar.

     I had needed a way to internalize movies and carry them around inside of me and the list offered a simple way to do that.  I reach Mount Katahdin in Maine, the northern terminus of the A.T., on October 19th, 2007, six months and one day after starting.  My adventure may be over but the list is only just beginning.

     I'll end with this: you can't really describe something like an A.T. thru-hike, it's just impossible.  But I'm always tempted to try.  I had spent most of my teens and twenties in retreat: Who was I?  What was I?  Who was I and what was I becoming?  Now I was in a situation where I could not retreat any further, where I could no longer forestall growing up.  To accomplish an unthinkable end requires unthinkable means: for me it meant reaching down, much further than I ever had before, for fuel to keep me burning in the darkness: the top 100 film list was a part of that effort.  When I think about my hike, I'm reminded of what the great Western filmmaker Budd Boetticher once said about the genre: "A man has a job to do, or a couple of men.  They try to do it against tremendous odds.  They do it."  It was as complicated - and as simple - as that.  And when I think about the list, I don't just think about the movies themselves, but about the defiant act of composing it over days, weeks, months, years... to this very day: the fury of a life which suddenly and unexpectedly burns to live.

"What's wrong with dying?  'Cause life is too precious a gift, that's why.  Because the first duty of life is to live."

--Robert Stroud (Burt Lancaster), Birdman of Alcatraz (1962, dir. John Frankenheimer)

Live by the Code

"Never broke into a car, never hot-wired a car.  Never broke into a truck.  'I shall not cause harm to any vehicle nor the personal contents thereof, nor through inaction let the personal contents thereof come to harm.'  It's what I call the Repo Code, kid.  Don't forget it - etch it in your brain.  Not many people got a code to live by anymore."
--Repo Man (1984, dir. Alex Cox)

     At one time, this land was dotted with video rental stores and, inside each of these stores, were staff-people, famously supercilious individuals known as video store clerks.  
     What was it like to work in a video store and what did life there consist of?  What did these clerks think about during the long days on their aching feet, walking back and forth, the phone ringing constantly, re-shelving movies and staring disapprovingly at customers' rental choices?  What did they dream about at night, after the job of collecting late fees and calling customers about overdue VHS tapes had drawn to a close?  What were their fears and anxieties, their hopes and aspirations?
     Video store life will be a prominent theme of this blog because, well, I work at one... which is somewhat unusual in 2020!  My aim is simple: to record as much as possible - of what I have experienced, first-hand or otherwise, of video store life - while there are still impressions, sensations, and experiences to be recorded; in other words, to be part-diarist, part-ethnographer.  Because video store work is viewed as menial, it has largely escaped serious study in the past, yet, as an endangered form of emotional labor, is more than worthy of being catalogued and recorded.
     I was born in 1978 and grew up in the era of video.  However, despite being a movie-lover throughout my teens and twenties, I did not work in a video store until I was 31, when I got a job at Best Video in Hamden, Connecticut.  (At this point, in 2010, video stores were closing their doors in large numbers across the country due mainly to the inroads of on-demand video streaming.)
     Though largely menial labor, video store jobs have traditionally come with some small prestige and cultural capital attached and I was enthusiastic about the prospect of working with movies.  I expected to like the job and I did, eventually, although the transition was rockier than I expected: I was no overnight sensation, that's for sure, no matter what talents and prior experience I brought with me.  Video store work is superficially easy, of course, but, like much other emotional labor, is also quirky and complicated: a job which rewards emotional investment but punishes over-investment - a tough line to toe, as I would learn! 
     I made all sorts of mistakes early on.  For example, a quiet, older couple were renting a DVD and I made the mistake of asking them if they planned to watch the movie in widescreen.  I was making small talk and was only going to make sure that they understood how to access the widescreen format on the DVD but they stared at me as though I were speaking a foreign language.  They clearly had no idea that the DVD had two formats in which to watch the film (widescreen and full screen), and nothing I could say made it any better... in fact, everything I said only made it worse!  After trying, and failing, to help them understand how the film's ratio corresponded to their TV screen, I gave up and simply encouraged them to watch the movie in widescreen.  So much for my big words - ugh!
     Due to this and other false starts, I became too gun-shy to talk to customers, about movies or most anything, and, therefore, rarely remembered people or their names, meaning that there was little continuity to my work interactions.  I was too proud to take the first step.  Most customers considered me nice but, probably, distant and effete.  The few times that I did recommend a movie, I would become enthused... so enthused, in fact, that I sometimes realized too late that I had probably over-sold the film.  Also, when customers would return these movies, I would ask them what they thought, sometimes right off the bat.  (Why I did this, I don't know: I, myself, hate being asked, as soon as the lights in the movie theater come up, "So, whadja think?!")  Sometimes they shared my enthusiasm but other times they did not - I tried to hold myself above such seeming trifles but the disagreements stung precisely because I had brought them upon myself (and unnecessarily).
     I was cocky and my hubris ultimately brought me down to earth: I had not yet mastered the art of matching people to movies... and movies to people.  You see, between customer and the movie that they desire (whether they know what it is or not) lies a lone person, a medium: the video store clerk.  But, as with any person who stands between and makes connections, I found that it can be a treacherous and, at times, lonely position to occupy.  (Think of a switchboard operator in the past: connecting caller to caller, listening to conversations but not taking part, and, ultimately, becoming emotionally desensitized to the work.)
    Years passed (imagine calendar pages blowing off in the wind!) and I stuck with the job: as time passed Best Video, if it was precious before, became even more invaluable.  In time, I became judicious: through the crucible of experience I emerged with a surer sense of what my duties were and a greater understanding of the unwritten contract between video store customer and clerk... something which I now call... the Video Store Clerk Code!
     (As I was preparing to write this, one of my sketched-out ideas below sounded familiar: upon investigation, I realized that I was paraphrasing one of the four maxims of philosopher H. Paul Grice's cooperative principle (I took a linguistics class about six years ago).  Realizing how appropriate they are, I have decided to incorporate all four of the maxims (quantity, relevance, manner, and quality, respectively), in my own words, into 1, 2, 3, and 4 below.  Thanks to Finegan's Language: Its Structure and Use (7th ed.) for my (admittedly) limited understanding!)
     (Also: the following list is not meant to be purely proscriptive (i.e. "don't do it that way; do this, instead") or descriptive ("this is what happens in video stores, take it for what it's worth") but a playful mixture of both.  I will leave it to the reader to discern which is which....)

(1)  The video store clerk will communicate with the customer on the basis that each understands the others' statements provide sufficient information, nothing more or less.   
This principle is illustrated by the following hypothetical exchange: 
"Gino!  How are you feeling?!"  
"Oh, I feel fine, thanks for asking."  
"Wait, didn't I hear that your house was crushed by Godzilla a few days ago?!"  
"True, it was while I was at the grocery store... but you didn't ask about my house."
Both interlocutors interpret this principle differently and their readings are illustrative.  Gino's friend interprets Gino's statement as that he feels fine and therefore nothing else significant is going on or has happened (i.e. no destroyed house).  Gino, on the other hand, replies with a statement that he feels is sufficient to answer the question given to him.  What is important here is that each interpretation/contribution to the speech act (i.e. conversation) relies upon the assumption that the other has an understanding of what information is necessarily sufficient to satisfy and complete the speech act (in other words, don't get hung up on the fact that those understandings don't always sync up!): the act of communication is to perceive and produce what one supposes will satisfy the other(s).  Neither interpretation is more or less correct: speech acts are necessarily cooperative so misunderstandings in this contested middle ground are inevitable (and, besides, this is a fairly exaggerated example!).  Video store clerks are a famously opinionated and talkative lot so it may seem that a principle hinging upon economy of expression strikes against our inner natures (perhaps so!).  Still, the nobler route is the better one.  When a customer is renting a movie and they ask what I think of it (a daring thing to do!), should I choose not to enter the fray, I reply either with a statement of utter ambiguity or "We here at Best Video draw no judgments... and, if we do, we will not admit it."  (Also see 4a below for a further possibility.)  This was the principle that I violated early on by communicating unnecessarily wordy concepts about widescreen vs. full screen or by asking people's opinions of my recommendations without them first volunteering the information.  And, because of the latter, here is the following:
(1a)  The video store clerk will never ask a customer returning a recommended movie what they thought of it. 
In essence, remember that the recommendation has been made is sufficient in itself.  One who recommends a film cannot control the viewer's experience of said film: simply leave it be and let nature take its course.  I learned the hard way that my enthusiasm for movie X may translate to customer Y but not Z (or vice versa... or neither!).  However, if the customer volunteers the opinion - positive or negative - let's discuss!  Additionally:
(1b)  When the video store clerk is able to make recommendations to the customer, recommend; when not able, improvise.  
This is a further elaboration of the principle of economy - what it means is that the clerk who is running out of recommendations need not despair but simply focus on statements which are sufficiently true, as in: "This movie got great reviews," "A few people have told me that this movie is really good," or, even the excessively vague, "This movie has been renting really well."  (Also see 4a & 5 below.)
(2)  The video store clerk will be relevant in communication with the customer.  
What this means, in practice, is: if I have just seen the greatest zombie movie of all time and I walk into work the next day, I do not bother families with young children and conservative older customers by recommending it... because it isn't relevant (no matter how good the film was)!  This is seemingly straightforward but sometimes hard to execute in the chaotic, distraction-laden environment of the video store.
(3)  The video store clerk will be orderly in communication with the customer.  
In practice, this means speaking and acting in such a way that avoids ambiguity and confusion.  In essence, there is an order to the way that things are done in a video store: follow any single transaction methodically from beginning to end and avoid shortcuts.  Of course, there are also more complicated applications.  For example, if a customer is interested in the history of Westerns, don't recommend that they start with Psychological Westerns, Western Noir, Revisionist Westerns, or Spaghetti Westerns; start, instead, at the beginning with The Virginian, Stagecoach, Destry Rides Again, My Darling Clementine, etc.  A favorite saying of mine is appropriate here: "do it right, do it once."
(4)  The video store clerk will communicate with the customer on the basis that each understands the other to be truthful.  
In practice, this usually translates to, simply, "be truthful."  So, if a customer asks where a section is, you tell them truthfully, or, if they ask your opinion on a movie, you are similarly truthful.  Of course, it works both ways: if I ask a customer what types of movies he or she likes, I assume that they will be truthful because, otherwise, it will make it more difficult for me to be able to do my job which is providing them with recommendations.  But, beware: this principle points out that the basis of communication between clerk and customer is based on the understanding that the other is truthful, not that the other is necessarily being truthful.  Think about it: no business, no matter what type, could operate effectively without such a foundation.  But it also creates unique situations, such as that contained in the following:
(4a)  If a customer (one who is not well-known to the clerk) is in the process of renting an awful movie and they ask what the clerk's opinion is of the motion picture in question, the clerk will lie and say that he or she has not seen it.  
In such a case, to be truthful may have deleterious effects (the clerk may be irrevocably labeled pretentious or pompous, for example) and an untruth (i.e. a lie) is justifiable; therefore, rely upon the fact that the customer assumes you to be truthful and move on!
(5)  The basis of the relationship between video store clerk and customer is the trust that customer will be guided to movie and clerk will be rewarded accordingly for their labor.
On the surface, this principle seems pretty straightforward: it simply codifies the relationship between customer and clerk and what each aims to achieve or gain through it.  If the relationship is healthy, customer is happy with movie while clerk is paid; if not, well....  But like other principles on this list, it's a bit deceptive: the key is not the outcomes, intended or otherwise, but that the relationship is based upon trust.  In other words, trust explains how the system works (when it works) in a straightforward sense (i.e. customer gets movie, clerk gets paid) but in unorthodox applications, as well: it is trust, for example, which empowers the clerk to rely so heavily, when required, on the assumption that what is said is held to be sufficient (1a & 1b) or the assumption that what is said is held to be truthful (4a).  In essence, the video store clerk observes, recognizes, and steps in to act when necessary (like the government exercising extra powers during a state of emergency) and it is trust which enables that to occur.  I learned long ago that the customer wants to feel good about their transaction: do what you can to make that happen (within reason, of course!).
(6)  The video store clerk will maintain a sense of cool detachment: observe and only act or intervene when required.  
(For all you Trekkies, this is a non-involvement clause somewhat akin to the Prime Directive.)  In practice, this often translates to giving the customer the benefit of the doubt, which can be difficult, especially when the first person to rent a DVD returns it scratched and claims to not know how it got that way, but... you do what you can!  This goes beyond the first principle and extends the economy of expression (say only what is sufficient) to demeanor and bearing: do only what is sufficient.  There is a lot of stimulation - visual, aural, and otherwise - at play in a video store and some overreact to this chaos: the clerk must, whenever and wherever possible, remain imperturbable and radiate calm, never fanning the flames of any particular situation.
(7)  The video store clerk will not cause harm to movies through either action or inaction: video tapes, discs, and other media will be left in a state at least as good or better than when found. 
This is an adaptation, of course, of the "Repo Code" from Repo Man quoted above but goes further to incorporate the ideas of Leave No Trace outdoor conservation ethics.  The application is straightforward: leave movies you encounter at least as well as you found them and, if possible, make them better.  Of course, as with everything on this list, it's not so simple.  At its best, the scope of this principle should be widened to include, not just movies, but potentially anything: whatever you encounter, leave it in the same state or make it better.
(8)  When all else fails, the clerk will simply inform the customer that most new releases are terrible.  
"Can I interest you in a musical or a horror film?  The One-Armed Swordsman or A Touch of Zen?  How about something by Wilder or Sturges?...  Sirk?... Lang?... Lubitsch?...  Hitchcock?!..."

     And so, the tribulations of the world's few remaining video store clerks, go on (and on and on and on...).  Taken together, the above principles allow the clerk to toe a line between emotion and non-emotion, to cultivate an economy of thought and action which is, potentially, infinitely sustainable.
     The next time you walk into a video store (if you have the pleasure of walking into a video store, that is!), observe discretely: where is that oft-maligned individual, the clerk?  Is he or she re-shelving a stack of movies?  Tracking down an overdue film over the phone?  Idly texting or web surfing on their phone?  Arguing with friends over the relative merits of Carpenter and Cronenberg?  Or just biding time 'til dinner?  Remember that, below the surface, there may be more at work: perhaps he or she is even some sort of Don Quixote... daydreaming of the days of chivalry and knights-errant, Bushido and samurai.
     The life of a video store clerk is always intense!

Movie Theater in My Head

Waiter: Yes, Baron. What should we start with, Baron? Hmm?
Gaston Monescu: Oh yes. That's not so easy. Beginnings are always difficult.
Waiter: Yes, Baron.
Gaston Monescu: If Casanova suddenly turned out to be Romeo having supper with Juliet, who might become Cleopatra, how would you start?
Waiter: I would start with cocktails. 
--Trouble in Paradise (1932, dir. Ernst Lubitsch)

Oh, my life
Is changing every day
In every possible way

And oh, my dreams
It's never quite as it seems
Never quite as it seems
--"Dreams" The Cranberries

     It was daytime and I stood outside of the squat, efficient-looking brick building.  There were a minimum of shadows so it felt like noontime.  Was it a restaurant?  A doctor's office?  A bank?  Whatever it was, I felt drawn to it and entered through the front glass door.  As my eyes re-adjusted to the dimmer interior, I observed that the place was evenly-lit, with a sort of institutional-like fluorescent buzz bouncing off of the white walls, wood paneling, tile floors, and bland carpeting.  The room was wide and spread-out and there were counters and windows and desks but the people seemed almost invisible, like they had dissolved into the recesses of the internal space.  It definitely felt like a bank.  In addition, it was quiet... except for the audible sounds of... weeping?  As I looked around, I realized every single person inside the place was crying and, by crying, what I really mean is bawling convulsively!  In their own world of grief, no one paid the slightest attention to me as I walked hesitantly up to the nearest teller - a woman.  Her head was down on her folded arms on the counter and her shoulders rose and fell rhythmically with each gut-wrenching sob.  What was I waiting for?  What could I possibly be expecting?  At last, she seemed to sense that someone was standing at her window.  Slowly, gathering and collecting herself, she drew herself up, sniffling, and peered at me quizzically through reddened, teary eyes.  (In my mind, now, she resembles Edie McClurg in the film Ferris Bueller's Day Off, but... who knows?)  She stared at me expectantly for a few seconds and her jaw quivered, tears dangling precipitously from the point of her chin.  Finally, with exasperation she yelled out, "Why aren't you crying?!"

     This was a dream that I had about three years ago.  Why did it come into my head?  What does it mean?  Does it mean anything?  Why wasn't I crying?  I have no idea.

     I have been thinking a lot about dreams in recent weeks because: (1) with the coronavirus shutdown now running for over a month, I have had a lot of time to think; (2) I've also been sleeping more than usual and, therefore, remembering my dreams more frequently; and, (3) with the subtraction of the competing distractions of my "normal" routine, dreams have been gravitating to the forefront of my attention (perhaps their natural place?).
     The shutdown has affected all of us in different and unexpected ways and, in spite of our best efforts and bravest faces, I am certain that we all feel at least a little down.  To my eyes, the world looks unstable, insecure, and, perhaps strangest of all (I'm 41, after all), unfamiliar.  Among the casualties of the response to the pandemic are many traditional face-to-face transactions, from school to church to business to gatherings of all types including sports, music, and... yes, public movie screenings (unless you count the few remaining drive-ins).  Even when we come into contact with family, friends, and acquaintances, we often have to maintain a distance or our very faces - those markers of our individuality and identity - must be obscured.  Modern life - we have learned or been reminded - is quite fragile.
     To survive hard times, the world must look familiar to us... even when it does not.  How do we negotiate that divide and discover the familiar in seeming disarray?
     To be specific, what do we do in a world without movies?  At one time, this question would have been purely hypothetical, something to muse over with about the same seriousness as a fer-real zombie invasion.  After all, movie theaters and film screenings have been under siege since the popularization of television but... have they ever really been in danger of just going away... until now?
     I love movies more than just about anything.  Films, of course, can be experienced in different ways.  For example, they can be viewed on various types of screens (a tv, computer, phone, etc.), individually or in small groups, but in these cases the screen is doing the projecting (i.e. emitting the light) and not being projected upon (as with a movie screen).  In the former, the screen functions as a literal "screen" - a screen between us and reality, emitting light and sound and distraction - while in the latter, the screen is receptive to what is cast upon it... it is a doorway and an entrance.  I prefer the latter and it is primarily this that I am referring to here as cinema, film, and movies.  
     I sometimes believe that movies are more important than, or at least as important as, life itself... but that's not true.  Not quite, anyway!
     Let's start with the basics: what is cinema?  Film is a two-dimensional visual sequence which is reproduced in such a way as to create the illusion of movement - in other words, to trick the eyes into seeing cohesive action.  Additionally, a movie is a ritualized/conventionalized event during which individuals and groups of people gather together to experience these reproductions of motion in unison as an audience, usually in darkened rooms specialized for the purpose which are known as cinemas or movie theaters.  (Of course, sound usually comes into play, as well, but that's another subject.)
     Given these definitions, cinema has only been around for, at most, a little over 140 years, and, therefore, we don't really need it, right?  Human life existed long before the arrival of film in the late-nineteenth century and, therefore, can survive without it.  Movies, in other words, are a technological development that modern culture has embraced in an extraordinarily intimate way... but far from necessary.
     Yet, film doesn't just appear, does it?  Cinema is no cosmic accident: it may be a concrete "thing" but, as a collection of ideas, concepts, and schemes, it has been mulled and dreamed over since the dawn of time.  In fact, for something so heavily prefigured (like photography, for example), it might be more appropriate to say that film was discovered or given birth to rather than "invented".  If we find the definitions above too restricting, we need to release our scientific inclinations and seek an "imaginative" definition of cinema, instead.  We might argue, for example, that cinema is a mode of storytelling that is immersive, primarily visually, and, perhaps, secondarily for other senses, as well.  This definition identifies cinema as a tendency more than a "thing" and, with it, we can single out different types of proto-cinema: cave paintings, tapestries, theater, ballet, opera, Asian folding screens, Chinese opera, Noh, Kabuki, Javanese shadow puppets, illuminated manuscripts, cycloramas, mystery plays, passion plays, magic lantern shows, and campfire storytelling, to name just a few.  What this wide range of activities reveals is that the instincts toward film, the sense of movies, the spirit in the direction of cinema is quite old, indeed!  In other words, the cinema may disappear - there is no reason why it needs to remain with us - but the cinematic is with us... always.
     So, to go back to the question, "what do we do in a world without movies?," the answer becomes obvious.  If you reach the end, or some kind of an end for movies, temporary or permanent, you go back to the beginning... in this case to the basic ingredients of narrative... to the spring from which it all flows.  
     What predates cinema itself?  Dreams.