Since I’ve tossed off my desk chains and abandoned the corporate world, I’ve made an effort to get out and interact with other sectors of the city. So much goes on in Manhattan outside of Midtown highrises, and why live here if you experience none of it. So last night, when Boyfriend and Media Friend announced they were both invited to a movie premiere and could bring a guest, I jumped at the opportunity. A premiere! How glamorous! Granted, it was some obscure film I had never heard of, but why not maintain an open mind. Free tickets, no lines, maybe even free popcorn, an afterparty with bountiful open bar - who am I to turn down such delights.
Arriving 10 minutes early, I enter the theater and approach a crowded table decorated with a banner announcing the film. Behind the table sit four attractive twentysomething women clad entirely in black: the publicists. They survey the room like hyenas eyeing approaching cows. I pick the one on the far right, a brunette with kind eyes, and approach warily.
“Hi, I’m here for the movie?”
“Which list are you on?” She picks up a magic marker and a large printout covered with names.
“Uh, I’m sorry?”
“Which list are you on? The Press List or the Guest List?” she demands, patience draining from her face.
“Uh, well, I’m someone else’s guest, so I guess neither. But my friend and boyfriend are on at least one of them. Can I check in for them?”
She shoots me a look as if I’ve just asked her to summarize the possible effects of deuterium gas on the success of cold fusion. “If you aren’t on a list, you need to wait for your host so they can check in with me.”
Abashed, I retreat to a shadowed corner and observe the scene. Five minutes later, the flock of publicists leap from their seats to surround two newcomers, whom I assume from their reception must be famous. When the entourage disperses, I get a good look at the celebrated pair, neither of whom I could identify if you held a loaded semiautomatic rifle to my skull. The man is under six feet, wearing at least 7 separate leather garments. The top of his head has exploded into a frizzled plume of grey hair, and a pair of dark sunglasses swallow his face despite the dim indoor lighting. His companion blinds onlookers with her irradiated bleached locks, curled into ringlets. She teeters expertly on spike heels that resemble medieval torture devices. An older male publicist fawns over the couple, attaching himself to their elbows and peppering them with obsequious questions. I eavesdrop on the answers of Sunglasses At Night, who speaks with a thick British accent.
“The thing with me is, I’m the kind of person that twinkles so brightly. I tire so quickly, I just get worn out, and with me the thing is rest. For me, I have to be given space to breathe after I create, I have to have my rest. I can’t do my best work without it.”
Vaguely wondering if I’ve ever heard the words “I” and “me” used so frequently in one sentence, I wave to arriving Media Friend and we trudge up the escalator and into the large theater. It’s close to packed, and we scurry into seats at the back. In front of us, a tall, florid man in a magenta shirt and wrinkled blazer marches up the stairs, surveys the room and announces: “I think I’m the most famous person here!” before dropping into a Reserved seat. Media Friend whispers to me that he writes a local gossip column.
The lights dim and a spotlight hits the director, a tiny dark woman with a thick accent. She rasps into a microphone, thanking a long list of names. Then the room goes black and the film begins.
After twenty minutes, it hits me: this is quite possibly the worst movie I’ve ever seen. And this coming from someone who saw “Ishtar” and “Congo” in the theater. Twice. Yes, they were bad, but never before has the screen actually seared my retinas with a film’s sublime awfulness. I fold my hands and openly pray for it to end. Two hours later, the lights come up and the director, a few actors and other wayward souls assemble in the front of the theater for a Question & Answer session. I want to raise my hand and ask the female lead, “So how exactly did you prepare for your role as a suicidal psychotic child-abusing crackwhore?” but decide against it. Mercifully, a publicist announces that one final question may be asked. An overeager man with a grey ponytail thrusts his hand in the air. “What part of this story is true?” he demands.
The director looks at him like a roach that’s just crawled across her marble countertop. “True? You want to know what part of the movie is true?” she brays in her heavy European drawl. “Truth is bullshit. Truth is crap. There is no true. You all think a story has to be true to be good. My life isn’t true. Your life isn’t true. That is a shit question.” She turns her head and almost spits.
And suddenly, in a single moment, the entire evening is redeemed.