The death of Sherman Torgan, owner and proprietor of the New Beverly Cinema, reminded me of an evening in 1993 when my friend Julia Sweeney and I met up with Quentin Tarantino, Tim Roth, Laurence Tierney, Chris Penn, and Michael Madsen (I think that was the whole crew) at Insomnia (Beverly and Poinsettia, near El Coyote) and did "The Walk" down Beverly Blvd. to the theater, where those guys were going to do a Q&A with the audience after a showing of "Reservoir Dogs." We were a block down the street before I consciously realized we were re-enacting the opening credits of the movie -- in streetclothes. I wondered if anybody on the street had a flash of recognition as they drove by, one of those little "Did I just see that?" moments that happens so often in a moving vehicle, and especially in Los Angeles.
I just had another one of those experiences this evening. Hadn't eaten all day and suddenly I knew I just had to have a club sandwich: crispy bacon, turkey, ham, lettuce, tomato, Swiss cheese -- maybe a slice of red onion -- on rye or wheat toast. It became my holy grail, the focal point of my existence. I went to a nearby sports bar-type restaurant near the University of Washington, a place I remembered from college, where I knew I could get just such a sandwich, quickly and painlessly. I was sitting in the bar and just before the waiter appeared, a song started playing and -- again, before I was even aware of it -- I was lifted out of the book I was reading and transported somewhere else.
It was Journey: "Don't Stop Believin'." And I got goosebumps. How the hell did that happen? Two months ago I wouldn't even have recognized the song. I still don't remember it existing before the last scene of "The Sopranos." But now, it was invested with a power that transformed my awareness completely. I felt a tension, an excitement, a wistfulness that had nothing to do with the song as it had previously existed and everything to do with the context in which I'll now hear it forever. I sat, a little bit dazed, and soaked up the atmosphere, pretending it was a diner in Jersey. When the guy arrived to take my order, I got a club. And onion rings.
Got any stories of moments when you suddenly felt you were in a particular movie? If so, I'd love to hear 'em....
The final moments of Amarcord, in the aftermath of the wedding of Gradisca, are infused with the melancholy of the director looking back on his youth at a specific moment when life in his small town was changing, or at least he was changing, and things would never be the same. Fellini uses all the powers beholden to him as a great director of moods and images in the final sequences of this movie to convey that sense of ambivalence, of the strong attraction of looking back, and the unease of the future (best embodied by the grim realities of Fascism seen earlier in the film). One of the brush strokes Fellini uses to achieve this emotional ambivalence is purely visual-- the floating of dandelion buds through the evening air, not unlike the snowfall of an earlier sequence, but this time implying an impermanence, an instability that even nostalgia cannot anchor.
As I was gassing up my car in Eugene, Oregon, on the half sunny-half misty day after I graduated from the university there, I was overwhelmed, as many a graduated student has been before and after me, by the enormous question mark that lay ahead, the pull of the past feeling much less strong, the uncertainty of the future all too real. As I gazed out over the city and allowed myself a moment to absorb what I knew would be my last moments looking at this place with this particular set of eyes, I remembered that gorgeously expressed ache woven into the final moments of Amarcord, a movie I'd grown to love in my four years as a student in Eugene. I remembered the movie's overwhelming effect on me, and how I couldn't shake it for days afterward. And then, as I blinked myself out of this movie-suffused reverie and began to re-enter the real world, putting the gas nozzle back onto the pump, I noticed something. The air was full of floating dandelion buds, backlit by the mix of soft sunlight and thickening clouds in the sky. If I'd seen this moment in a movie, I would have rolled my eyes. But then again, I guess I did see it first in a movie. This moving, haunting moment in Fellini's movie found its way into my own life in a way I'll never forget.
It was quite a ride out of Eugene toward home, and the future.
Interesting that you had that experience less than a week after your "What I learned from Johnny Caspar" post.
When I read your entry on the Sopranos finale, where you suggested we have another onion ring, I wondered how many people would be inspired to go order some onion rings after seeing that episode. Sort of like how recess pieces sales went up after E.T.
For me, it usually works the other way, in that a scene in a movie will flash me back to a moment in my own life, and as a result I'm a terrible daydreamer while watching movies in a theater. I frequently have to rewatch a movie on DVD just so I can finish my first viewing.
But sometimes it goes around in circles. For example, I remember seeing one of the versions of Heidi when I was little and seeing her use a wooden footstool as a dining table by siting down with her legs around it. I used to do the same thing, and I was fascinated as a kid seeing someone in a movie do something so familiar to me. But now when I think of it, I think of Heidi first, then me.
This experience doesn't draw from any particular scene, nor any one particular film, but oft times I see outside of an experience I'm in and can feel where the camera should be and how the story should flow. I'm not going to go into too much detail, as this is something I'll be using in one of my own screenplays.
I was running just on time to a bar that I was meeting a girl at. It was almost a blind date. I knew what she looked like, but had never actually met her in person. I walked through the bar once...then twice...I didn't think I recognized her. I stepped outside and leaned up against the wall, waiting. A few minutes went by, some people entered, no, no...no. Then looking to the left I saw walking towards me the silhouette of a very tall slender woman, hair cut shorter than in her pictures, but it was her. There was no music, but I swear her steps matched a rhythm as she swayed towards me. I shook hands with an angel, then went inside. I knew no one there...she knew everyone. I kind of stood to the side as she caught up while drinking out first drink. Then we moved into a large dance hall in the back where she was going to say hi to her DJ friend. The room felt large as there were only a few people dancing. It was dim, red hues covering the walls. We swept past the dancers to the back of the room, where a long bench protruded from the expanse of a raised platform along the back wall. She hugged her DJ friend. The we sat. She told me a dream her DJ friend had. He had seen her in a golden dress and tall high heels. Then she pointed out the high heels she had on, they were gold, this would do she thought.
We exchanged a few brief sentences before she started talking to one of her friends again. I sitting in the middle of the long bench stared out over the sea of no many dancing bodies. And I felt a deep sense of loneliness weighing down on me. That was when I could see the camera looking at me from the other side of the room, moving over the top of the crowd towards me, framed in the center, but small. I felt I was a lost soul in a Wong Kar-Wai film, zoning out as the dancers moved quickly but slowly at the same time to the beat of the music...then a close up, as the tip of her golden high heel tapped the side of my foot. I look up at her. Our eyes meet. She gives me a subtle but penetrating smile, as if to tell me where my attention should be.
The rest of the evening went up and down, to be dramatized hopefully as soon as I finish my current writing projects.
The other moment is when I went to an apartment with my cousin and a friend of his from college. Mind you both of these instances take place in Los Angeles. We show up at the house. Most everyone is extremely drunk. And through out the living room, bed room, kitchen, square pieces of glass covered the tops of various pieces of furniture. It became obvious when one of them was sniffing from the top as to what was going on. A lot of raucous laughing. A girl running to the middle of the grassy area outside to try to climb a tree, the host following her, and pulling her down, like she was the forbidden fruit and all he wanted was a bite. I was shot into the final party scene in "La Dolce Vita", and felt disgusted that I had ended up with such empty souls. My cousin and I left soon after.
My life becomes almost like a film sometimes. I guess that's how closely I'm tied to films in general.
Actually, I used to get that feeling all the time at an old diner I used to go to with my college roommate. The tender of the counter was an old Asian man and in the lounge area next to the counter (where they had dart boards, card tables, etc) had groups of older guys oftentime separated by race. The main difference was neither of us were boxers. If so, I certainly hope I would be Jeff Bridges and not Stacy Keach.
College, 1999. The University of Texas at Austin.
Me and my then-girlfriend are leaving 6th street with my two roommates to get back to my car so we can go home. It's late at night, and we've parked near campus because we knew a free place to park... definitely worth having to walk a few extra blocks.
It's basically desolate where we are, though there's a few lone students or pairs walking on our sidewalk or across the street, but, basically: Empty.
For no reason I can remember, my roommate Michael (a theatre guy to the core) starts singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen. Michael has a great voice. Jeff, the other roommate joins in. In seconds me and Katie have joined in, and we're really belting it out, man. No holds barred. And just as we get to the best part --
A guy walking on the same sidewalk, maybe 20 yards behind us. He chimes in at just the right time with "I see a little silhouette-a of a man!"
And we respond in kind. And the four of us and a total stranger sing our way through the song.
For a glorious 6-7 minutes, we lived in a musical.
1995, a buddy and I are running through the woods on the first evening of the Talkeetna Bluegrass Festival in Alaska. It's dark, except for scattered campfires and the sporadic fireworks that you can make out through the trees. Dark enough that you can't usually see the group of people you are coming upon until you're ten feet away; and people are everywhere, having established their own little plot in the woods. There's music, partying... everything - a barrage of ever changing noise. As we run, we are constantly avoiding stepping into anyone's camping space and collisions with the frequent wackos who wander into your path by accident or because they truly believe that this exact moment is a good time to wander over to a running stranger and engage them in slurred conversation. We're completely out of our minds on mushrooms while everyone else is out of their minds on who knows what. As fireworks explode all around us, my buddy turns to me and says "I feel like I'm in the middle of Apocalypse Now." Whenever people would ask me what it's like to go to the Talkeetna Bluegrass Festival I tell them it's like being in the middle of a war where nobody is getting killed but everyone is losing their mind. The event is so crazy that it feels this way even if you are completely sober (just not as amplified). I was young then - I don't go the the festival anymore. It's just to intense.
This doesn't really count, but just yesterday as I was looking for a Ben & Jerry's flavor I overheard two women in the dairy section:
"What is this?" "Cheese." "And this?" "Cheese." etc. (i.e. they were reenacting a [deleted] scene from Borat)
Holy shit, Ken. Me and my friends were involved in an impromptu Bohemian Rhapsody with strangers in Austin in 1999 as well, but this was on the Drag walking from The Showdown to west campus. Weird. For a second I thought I might have been the stranger, but I'm quite sure we were walking in front of the old Tower Records at the time.
Sorry, all you non-Austinites. This was too weird not to mention.
We also had more than one person yell at us to, um, "Shut the f***k up!" Did that happen to you too?
Back in University I joined the Freeform Dasnce Society - partly for low level exercise but mostly, it must be said, to meet girls.
Our instructor was fond of using colored light bulbs to brighten up the dull facilities room we used. This usually did the trick, bright reds and greens being her favourite.
She wasn't a music buff but frequently had friends make her mix tapes of movie music. One week I arrived slightly late and was only just getting warmed up when the next track on her newest tape kicked in - the theme from Suspiria.
I'd seen Argento's movie for the first time only a week or two before hand. So the combination of actual dancing, brightly colored lighting and terrifying music genuinely made fearful.
Well, that's eerie. It did not happen on the Drag for us, however; I remember it as pretty distinctly being somewhere between campus and 6th Street, and it may well have been early 2000 (but likely late 1999).
No one told us to shut the fuck up, but we did have some stares from people walking the other way across the street.
Something about Austin and Queen, I guess...
It's interesting you solicit this information, Jim. I just posted a shorter version of this incident on Sergio Leone and the Infield Fly Rule blog. It worked there and it certainly works here.
My best friend and I took a vacation during February of 2002. We both were about to begin new jobs so we took 1 of the ubiquitious "roadtrip" vacations where you sorta drive without a destination. We spent a few days in Angelfire, New Mexico then wanted to drive to Vegas. We stopped at the Hoover Dam and walked around for awhile. I walked up to the rail and was looking over when I felt the presence of someone next to me. I looked over and there was a female standing a few feet away from me on the railing. She was Middle Eastern, wearing a veil that only silhouetted her face. I turned to look at her and she immediately looked down, afraid to look me in the eye. Remember, we're talking 4 months removed from September 11th and we all know the hysteria that was resounding (and still resounds) everywhere. After a few seconds she looked back up at me and when she realized I wasn't tossing daggers with my stare, she smiled at me and looked back over at the Dam. This girl was absolutely gorgeous- flawless skin, deep green eyes and one of those timid, cute smiles. She walked away and back to her family. I watched as they got in their car and drove away. I often wonder what would've happened if I just talked to her. A few minutes later, I was reminded of that terrific speech given in "Citizen Kane" where one of the characters remembers seeing a beautiful girl pass by on a train and he remarks, "I haven't seen the girl since that day, but there isn't a day goes by without me thinking of her". I feel the same way.
Not a particular movie, but a fairly common scene you see in movies:
At my high school, we had dance lessons in the lead-up to the school ball, and we learned a variety of different dance steps, including one basic "rock & roll" dance move.
On the night of the ball, I ended up dancing with a friend of mine, and we started doing this rock & roll move that everyone had been taught, that everyone knew. We were doing nothing different, certainly nothing spectacular, but slowly a circle formed around us until everyone in the area was just standing watching us - I have no idea why that happened, but it happened.
And that reminded me of all the movies with a dance scene where the crowd just watches the dancers. A scene which I always hated and which always seemed unrealistic and artificial, but apparently happens, even when you're not an especially good dancer.
On another occasion, there was this girl at school that I used to really hate for various reasons. For various complicated reasons, I decided to call a truce with her. She apparently, independently and for different reasons, also decided on the same night to call a truce.
So the next day, when she walked into the class, the scene went pretty much like:
"I need to talk to you" / "I need to talk to you"
"You go first" / "Okay, you first"
"No, you go first"
"Really, you go first"
"Okay, I want to call a truce with you."
"Hey! That's what I was going to say."
Which again is a fairly stereotypical movie exchange, with two people taking at the same time to say the same thing.
Now I just need to be the subject of a slow clap.
(And, incidentally, that girl and I became friends following the truce, and 13 years later, are still really good friends, seeing each other most weeks.)
I wish I could post a picture here to show you my cats, a powerful black male, and a petite calico kitten, who every day reenact scenes between Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker.
I was in Texas 2 years ago on business and some co-workers and I were on our way back to our hotel really late at night. We drove past a hoppin' night club and saw loads of people pouring out, one of my co-workers goes "Watch This" and then he sticks his head out of the window and screams "THE STARS AT NIGHT ARE BIG AND BRIGHT..." and I'd say at least half of the drunken club goers scream back "DEEP IN THE HEART OF TEXAS!"
Well, the easiest thing to do, is put in some disco music on your iPod and then you walk to the beat of it, and I always feel like I am in "Saturday Night Fever." Mostly this happens accidentally, but occasionally I will do it on purpose, its a nice feeling.