by Jeff Strand
I don't have any questions. But I have to ask one, or his family will think that the sole audience member was not engaged enough by his film to desire further insight.
"What was your budget?" I ask.
"I prefer not to disclose that. It can impact getting a distribution deal."
"Oh."
"Are there any other questions?" he asks.
"How long did it take to make?"
"About two years."
"Oh. Well, good job," I tell him. "You made that place look like a hellhole."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"Are there any other questions?"
"I'm out of questions. I'm really sorry."
"That's perfectly fine. Thank you for being here."
I politely wait until he ejects the DVD, so that his family doesn't think I sprinted for the exit. Then I leave the room, quickly but not too quickly, pretending to be lost in thought over the images I have just viewed.
I've got five more movies scheduled for today. The next three are in the other screening room, so after a restroom and stretch break, I walk in there. It's empty except for a blonde woman seated in the front row center. When I watch a movie, I like to sit in the center, a couple of rows back, but since I'm the only other person in the room it would be creepy to walk up behind her and sit there. I pick a spot off to the side.
Apparently the filmmaker is not in attendance. A bearded guy with dark circles under his eyes comes in, starts the DVD, and leaves without a word. I get up to turn off the lights then return to my seat.
The movie is a comedy, although apparently not the kind that strives for the goal of audience laughter. I think it was shot with somebody's cell phone; not a contemporary model. The actors perform their roles with the passion of people being forced to say hi to imprisoned Uncle Frank on a Christmas video. The story is a cautionary tale about a married couple that wins the lottery, and how it doesn't bring them the happiness they expected. Quite honestly, the film makes winning the lottery look pretty freaking fantastic, but otherwise the movie is so boring that it makes me want to...well, not mutilate myself or anything, but it does make me want to leave.
About halfway through, I decide to bail. I pick up my backpack and stand up. The woman turns around in her seat.
"You're not abandoning me, are you?" she asks.
"I can't take this one anymore," I say.
"I'm miserable too. At least we can share the pain."
I sit back down.
"I was completely joking," she says.
"I know."
"You can go."
"I know."
"Really. It was a joke. You don't have to stay."
"I know. I'll tough it out."
"Please don't stay on my behalf."
"I'm staying."
"Don't."
"Maybe it will get better."
The movie does not get better. I stop thinking that the low quality is incompetence-based, and wonder instead if the writer/producer/director actually dislikes me personally. This could be part of some elaborate revenge scheme. Three years ago, I cut him off in traffic, and this is the culmination of his sinister master plan where I am subjected to this movie. The poor woman in the front row is collateral damage.
Or perhaps she's the target, and I'm the collateral damage. What could she have done to make somebody despise her to this extent? What lover could she have scorned? Whose child could she have flung into a bottomless well? What pet could she have deep-fried?
(I don't typically occupy my mind with these kinds of ridiculous thoughts, but I have to get through the movie somehow. Otherwise madness could creep in.)
Finally, mercifully, God or Satan, whichever one is in charge of this, decides I've suffered enough and lets the movie end. I get up and flip the lights back on. The woman turns around in her seat.
"I'm so sorry about that," she tells me.
"No problem."
"I really didn't mean for you to stay. I promise you I was kidding. Now I feel terrible."
"It's completely fine."
"If I read a book or watch a movie, I have to finish it, no matter what," she says. "It's kind of an OCD thing. But you shouldn't have had to endure that." She's being playful, but I think she genuinely feels bad that she made the socially awkward guy stick around.
She's probably in her late thirties, and she has a wonderful, nerdy kind of beauty, even without glasses. Her long blonde hair is completely straight.
"Are you staying for the next one?" I ask.
She nods. "I can't take the risk that I'll die and this will be the last movie I ever saw."
I want to invite her to sit next to me. It seems like that would be a perfectly appropriate thing to do. She wouldn't say, "How dare you, sir? How dare you?" This is exactly the kind of situation in which people ask other people if they'd like to sit next to them.
Instead, I pop a Red Vine into my mouth.
"I will give you a million dollars for one of those," she says. "Cash money, right now."
"You can have one for free."
She immediately gets up and sits next to me. I hand her the package, and she withdraws a Red Vine. Well, two, since they stick together.
"It's not theft if they stick together," she informs me.
"You can have as many as you want." I've never been stingy with my Red Vines. Though I'm not suggesting that I am a man without flaws, being greedy with candy is not one of them.
"Thanks. I assumed they'd sell snacks here, but the hotel gift shop isn't even open. I hope there's a vending machine somewhere so I can get a drink."
I reach into my backpack. "I've got Red Bull, if you need something to keep you awake for the next one."
"Oh, I can't do Red Bull, but I appreciate the offer."
"I've also got Sprite."
"Sold."
I take the can of Sprite out of my backpack and give it to her. "It's not very cold."
"That's fine." She pops it open, takes a deep swig, and then extends her free hand. "I'm Amy."
I shake it. "Todd."
"Amy Husk, if you want to be a completist."
"Todd Bryan."
"Oooh, double first names. Great to meet you, Todd Bryan." She bites off both ends of a Red Vine and sticks it into the can, using the licorice as a straw. I don't get the sense that this is a conscious attempt to be endearing; I think she frequently drinks her carbonated beverages in this manner. "What's up next to torture us?"
"Something called Dead Reach."
"Zombies?"
"I assume so."
"Cool." She slurps some more Sprite, then glances down. "You've even got a pillow! You are a guy who knows how these things work."
"Do you want to borrow it?"
"No, no, no. You're the one who planned for butt comfort."
A college-aged kid with a baseball cap and goatee walks into the room. He's wearing a red "Filmmaker" badge and he makes absolutely no effort to hide his frustration as he goes to the front of the room.
"Are you it?" he asks us, incredulous.
"As far as I know," I tell him.
"Are you fucking kidding me? Two people?"
"Sorry."
"The entry fee was thirty-five bucks! I paid thirty-five bucks for two people to show up! They didn't cover my goddamn hotel room, they didn't reimburse my goddamn gas, they're not paying for any goddamn meals--they didn't do goddamn jack shit! This festival's a joke!"
"Sorry," I say again.
"Screw this. I'm not showing my film for two people. It was meant to be seen with a large audience. It's a shared experience. That's the whole fucking point."
"Well, I mean, I think you still have to show it," I tell him. "We bought our passes."
"You don't get to tell me what to do with my art. Did you make this film? Did you work eighteen-hour days every weekend for a month? I'm in credit card debt up to my ass. They're trying to repo my car. I'll probably come home to an eviction notice." He runs a hand throu
gh his hair and for a moment I think he's going to burst into tears, but thankfully he maintains his composure. "Okay, maybe we could give it another few minutes and see if anybody else shows up."
"That sounds reasonable," I say.
He sits down in the front row and hunches over, burying his face in his hands. My prediction is that Dead Reach will suck and suck hard, but I'm not going to let him get away with not showing the movie that we paid for.
Amy slurps some more Sprite, emptying the can. She pulls out the soggy Red Vine, takes a bite, and chews thoughtfully.
"We could switch to the other movie," I say.
She shakes her head. "I want my zombies. But I'm going to take a quick restroom break. Hold my spot?"
"Sure."
She hurries out of the room. Now I'm alone with the filmmaker guy, who sounds like he may really be weeping now. I try to think of something comforting to say, but whereas "selfish with candy" is not one of my flaws, "bad at thinking of comforting things to say" most definitely is.
"I'm looking forward to your movie," I tell him.
He lets out a loud sigh.
I wonder if Amy will actually come back. Maybe she just used the restroom as an excuse, and is currently sprinting through the hotel parking lot, hoping to get to her car before I realize that she's gone.
That's unlikely. She strikes me as the kind of person who would say "Sorry to be blunt, but I'm truly repulsed by you and wish to leave your presence immediately." Then again, we've just met. She could be anything. She could be a man-hating serial killer who dispatches her victims with a rhinoceros horn.
But she does come back. She sits down next to me, and our hips touch, and I think that no matter how awful this movie is, it's going to be one of my all-time favorites.
CHAPTER THREE
"Look, one of us has to climb down into that hole, and as the guy who was sucked on by an alien today, I think I'm exempt."
--Exit Red, Season 1, Episode 4
Dead Reach exists right on the verge of being so bad it's good without ever quite crossing that line. Acting, dialogue, special effects, continuity...if any of these elements were slightly worse, the movie might generate entertainment value, yet it manages to sustain enough of a competence level to be merely tedious.
I'm not worried about hurting the filmmaker's feelings, because he walked out five minutes into the screening. But Amy already said that she never abandons a film in progress, and as long as she's sitting next to me, I'm not going anywhere.
We watch in silence. She shifts every once in a while, and I can tell that she's not enjoying this cinematic experience. Despite my hatred of movie-talkers, I'd be okay with her making ironic comments or starting up an unrelated conversation. In fact, if her cell phone went off and she started happily chattering away, I'd be cool with it. But she doesn't. All she does is accept the Red Vines I offer every ten minutes or so.
Some lady joins us about halfway through the movie. She only lasts for a couple of scenes before walking back out.
This movie needs more damn zombies. It has enough zombies that you can't say "It's subverting expectations by telling a zombie story without zombies!" but not enough of them to give you your money's worth out of a zombie flick. And it's all computer-generated blood. I'm no ghoul, but I like to see Karo syrup instead of pixels.
Fortunately, this one is short, barely feature-length. The credits move at an excruciatingly slow pace, as if to pad out the running time, and I wonder if it would be rude to get up and turn off the DVD player. I decide that it would be.
It's a good thing I don't touch the machine, because there's a bonus scene after the credits where a zombie jumps at the camera. That's what I think, with great sarcasm: Oh my, it's a good thing we didn't miss that. And right after I finish thinking it, Amy says, "Wow, I'm glad we stuck around for that." She's being sarcastic.
The movie switches to the DVD menu. The menu music is grating.
"Break time?" Amy asks.
"Sure," I say, and together we get up and leave.
We step out into the hallway. The filmmaker is seated right outside the screening room, drinking from a flask. He doesn't ask us what we thought of his motion picture.
I reach into my backpack. "Slim Jim?" I offer.
"Oh, yeah," Amy says. She takes it, rips open the package with her teeth, and pops the Slim Jim into her mouth. "Mmmm," she says. "Greasy nutrition."
"I actually do eat vegetables and stuff," I tell her. "Not every single day, but the majority of days." It's true, and I'm not even being sneaky about it by counting pizza toppings or potato chips. My film festival diet does not reflect my normal diet, though admittedly I eat very few green vegetables that are not slathered in ranch dressing.
"Well, of course. You'd be horrified at how healthy my regular diet is. Hor-ri-fied. The water, the whole grains, the fruits...it's awful." She finishes off the Slim Jim. "What were you going to watch next?"
"Jonah's City." It's a documentary about a teenager with Down syndrome who sings karaoke every week and wins a major competition. My rule about avoiding plot spoilers doesn't apply to documentaries.
"Is it supposed to be any good?"
"I haven't heard."
"What's our other choice?"
I take out my schedule. "The Student Shorts Showcase. Short films by kids."
"That could be interesting," says Amy.
"Not as interesting as the Down syndrome karaoke singer."
"How committed are you to seeing the next movie?"
"Not fully."
"Do you want to go get something real to eat?"
"Absolutely," I say. "My treat."
She shakes her head. "You've already fed me. I don't want you to think that I'm a leech. Where do you want to go?"
I don't know this area, but I don't want to seem indecisive. "Do you like seafood?"
"Sure."
I've got an app on my cell phone that shows nearby restaurants. I give it a moment to find our current location, then search for seafood restaurants. The closest one has three dollar signs after the listing, so we sure as hell won't be going there, but there's a one-dollar-sign restaurant about nine blocks away.
My car is a vehicle that can graciously be called "unimpressive," so I'm grateful when Amy suggests that we go on foot.
As we walk, Amy asks me if I go to a lot of film festivals. I say, not too many, a couple a year maybe, and ask her the same question. She says no, not really. She won a free pass in an Internet contest. She loves movies, especially independent ones, but is a newbie to the film festival circuit.
She asks what my favorite film festival discovery was, and I tell her about a movie called Wretched Excess, which I thought was just going to be a mindless gorefest (a concept to which, admittedly, I have no objection) but was actually an intelligent, well-acted, genuinely creepy and surprising horror flick. It never got a theatrical release, and as far as I know it never got any kind of home video distribution either, even online, so it's kind of cool to be part of a very small group of people who are aware of the existence of this minor masterpiece.
That conversation gets us all the way to the restaurant. I open the door for her, we walk inside, and suddenly Amy hesitates. The place is definitely fancier than I would expect from a one-dollar-sign restaurant, and I wonder if that's what made her stop.
A hostess immediately greets us and leads us to our booth. We slide into our seats as she places the menus on the table. I order a Dr. Pepper and Amy orders a glass of water.
We flip through our menus. Amy's mouth is a tight frown. My piece of crap app totally screwed up the number of dollar signs.
"Seriously, I'm happy to pay," I assure her, hoping that she's upset by how expensive this place is and not by the sudden realization that her choice of meal companions could have been better.
"You know what? I'm going to take you up on that. But we have to call this an official date."
"I have no problem with that."
"Good.
It's our first date."
"Cool."
We silently study the menus for a couple of minutes. "What are you going to get?" she asks.
"The grilled salmon with dill cream sauce."
"Sounds good. I'm getting the shrimp cocktail appetizer as my meal." It's not quite the cheapest item on the menu, but it's close.
I want to suggest that we split the shrimp cocktail as an appetizer, and then she can get an entrée. But that might feel like I'm bragging about being able to afford a full meal for two at a seafood restaurant. I don't want to come off as arrogant.
I wish I had more dating experience.
The server arrives with our drinks, takes our orders, and leaves. It's the kind of upscale place where the server doesn't even write down your order, which always makes me nervous.
"You don't have a girlfriend, right?" Amy asks.
"Of course not."
"I didn't think so. This didn't start out as a date, so I'm just making sure. I promise, I wasn't suggesting that you were the kind of guy who would cheat on his girlfriend, but you might have just been being nice to me with the licorice and soda and beef sticks, and then suddenly it turned into a date through circumstances outside of your control and you weren't sure how to break the news to me."
"No girlfriend."
"Are you divorced?"
"No."
"Gay?"
"Not that I've discovered yet."
"Anti-social?"
"Sort of."
"Me too."
"But not too bad. I mean, I like people. And I've had girlfriends. Not tons of them, but I understand the mechanics." My definition of "not tons" is "two," though I don't want to confess to my embarrassing lack of quantity quite yet.
"Hey, I really do apologize for the way I said the thing about the girlfriend," Amy says. "That sounded kind of accusatory. It's because I'm anti-social."
"No offense taken."
"Anyway, I'm divorced," Amy says.
"I'm sorry."
"Me too."
"How long were you married?"
"Eleven years. Exactly eleven years--the divorce became final on our anniversary."