The Moviegoer (Short Fiction)

Despite what my followers would say, no, I have not seen every movie made, I just happen to write a lot of reviews in a fairly short amount of time.

In case you’re not familiar with me, hello, my name is David Williams, and I’m often considered the most brutal film critic since Armond White, who has systematically hated every movie everyone else has adored; I don’t think I’m that bad. I just know good film, and I can recognize awful film pretty quick.

I’m prolific, yes, but I’m really just as busy as the next writer can be. Wake up around 10, hike across the road to Mickey’s for a mochaccino, and head back to my lair (as Ty would call it); usually, I start typing up my review for a film (or for films) I had seen the previous night.

I take a little journal, just a comp notebook, into each viewing, so I can go ahead and jot down my ideas on aspects I find worth reviewing. If a movie lays itself out pretty obviously, like an Adam Sandler movie where he is socially, umm, ‘odd,’ I can usually start writing the review within the first few minutes:

‘Gags fall short.’

‘Devoid of purpose.’

‘Kinda sad.’

Now Happy Gilmore? That was a good one. Still sad, still a little pointless, but boy was it funny. I don’t get what happened with him, like, when his skin started sagging, so did his jokes. But whatever.

So, when I went into The Moviegoer, and it started up, without credits, mind you, and I found it was shot in black and white, I almost instinctively clutched my journal, cringing. This one would be ‘Bleak, quiet (maybe), contemplative.” I give it kudos for the format, but it lends itself to predictability at this point. I didn’t know the director, the actors, none of it, so I went in with a virtually empty palette.

It was an early screening in an empty, half theater screening room, projector biting brightly at my neck, otherwise, still air, my seat creaking, my body shifting.

My friend Tyrese called me up, Tuesday or Wednesday, and said I just had to check it out. He told me it was the weirdest thing he had ever seen and wanted me to review it for him. I hadn’t heard about this movie from anyone else, which I found kind of odd.

But what the heck, right?

The screening was yesterday, Friday, a generally free day for me. I don’t usually make plans for my days off anyways. He told me it was being screened for critics, open invite, at some little theater on main; he said it didn’t have a sign, just two drama masks, tragedy, comedy, on display in the window.

He said “Careful when you’re driving. Blink and you’ll miss it.”

Well, I blinked.

Circled the block, parked in the rear and, inside, a gray woman with large glasses ushered me into the small room, without a word that I can recall, where the door was closed.

If I hadn’t known any better, I’d have said I heard it lock.

It turns out I was the only reviewer to show up for the screening, which is and isn’t ok.

It is ok because I don’t like people.

It isn’t ok because there’s no sense of anonymity. With other reviewers around, I can hide between these similarly blank faces, fingers lightly tapping laptop keys, faces washed out in electronic glow. So, in a sense, I’m more alone when I’m in large crowds of like-minded neurotics than when I'm, well, alone.

Plus, with no one there, my mind has space to wonder. My doctor doesn’t get with that; says I should start dating again. I’ll be okay, I say.

Onscreen, there were several characters sitting at a couch, staring into the camera. There were a few others walking

around, drinks in hand, dressed in 50’s attire. Dress clothes, suit jackets, dark dresses, wide brimmed hats for a few.

A door shut, and a young man with a generally likable face rushed onscreen, slipped into an empty spot on the couch, close to a young lady, eyes fixed on the camera. He promptly apologized to the group:

“Sorry I’m late. What did I miss?”

“Oh, you didn’t miss anything at all really, but I can catch you up” replied the younger lady, looking at him now, coyly. Their hands brushed, but didn’t linger. She had on a thick necklace of likely-fake pearls that glimmered bright in the film’s sepia undertones, the glare bringing attention to the small plateau between her breasts (I doubt she had on a bra. Directors are pervs. Smart ones, intentional ones, but pervs).

The younger man who was now intently staring into the camera with most of the party had on what I guessed was a gray sports jacket, light pants, his tie undone. His face shone a little brighter than the rest of the men’s, hidden in the shadows of their hats.

An older woman, pepper hair, stood towards the back of what I assumed was a high-rise apartment, window overlooking the tops of buildings. She spoke, close to another man, dark features, overpowered by his unnervingly handsome face. He looked like he could be a doctor or maybe a stock broker, by the way he wore his clothes, how he only moved with purpose. The lady gave off a similar but stiflingly feminine aire, her own hat notwithstanding the light of her intelligent eyes.

The furthest fellow, closer to the window, likely a smoker, spent half his time looking out the window, half of it pacing behind the couch that held the younger man, the pearled lady, and another woman, black hair, laid back, relaxed, almost nonplussed by whatever held the others’ attention.

Bored.

The youngest gal spoke to the man “Alright, so this fellow, the ‘Moviegoer,’ was born in some suburb near Atlanta, Georgia. Um… he grew up in a relatively conservative household, so he often snuck off to watch movies at his friend Kelly’s house. Pretty typical story there; he began to

question his family on their beliefs and eventually tore free. It wasn’t very pretty, but when is it, right?”

Wait a minute.

She was talking about me.

“Hey!” I said, “What’s the big idea?”

The younger man turned to the woman “What’s going on now?”

“Eh, nothing important. Probably a mental breakdown. He’s watching yet another movie to write a review for. He’s ended so many movie maker’s careers, it’s staggering. That has to weigh on a person.”

I got up, turned to look into the projector room, but the glare from the lens obscured the inside. I cupped my mouth “What is this garbage, huh? Is this some sort of joke?” I immediately thought of Tyrese, and grinned, a little annoyed. “Ty, this is funny and all, but you can quit it now. Thanks.” I sat down, turned around, and saw the characters’ eyes move back to me.

“Maybe this movie will finally get interesting,” the younger lady said.

“Hm?” the younger man turned to her, his face inches from hers, his eyes intrigued. He rubbed his knees.

“Not a single important thing has happened yet. It makes me wonder why this movie was even made.”

“I’m sure it has a deeper meaning. Maybe the director was caught up trying to catch the mundane, everyday life of a man.”

“But shouldn’t there be a point?”

“Maybe the point is there is no point.”

“Ugh.”

The handsome man reached for a bottle of scotch, on the cabinet by their hips, and poured two glasses, his smile a little brighter than before as he handed a shot to the mature woman. She looked at the camera, looked back at his chest, his face.

So, what, am I some movie that they are watching? It made sense; the way the room was arranged in relation to the camera made it appear that the camera was a T.V. set they were all gathered around.

I opened my book, wrote “Meta.”

“Look, see how he writes in his little notebook? The movie isn’t even over yet; he didn’t give it a chance!” the second woman on the couch said.

“Yeah, he does that with most movies he sees. He had a notebook like that when he was in High School. There was some girl, umm, I think it was Abigail, that he was into and that he eventually got with, and he’d write her poems in that book without actually giving them to her.”

“Aww, that’s sweet.”

“It would be, but when he finally got to be with her, he never felt like he really was with her. That’s why she never got the poems. He lost his innocence to her, like it was nothing, and then they up and broke up before he went off to film school. He still has those stinkin’ notebooks too.”

I stood up, shocked. Ty wouldn’t have known that. No one knows that. I felt nauseas.

The man by the window retrieved a cigarette, shaky hands, cracked the overlook a bit and lit it, coughed out a plume of nicotine and grainy tar.

The mature woman looked past the handsome man, drink in hand. “If you get any ashes on the carpet, I’ll kill you David.”

David? My namesake! It made me wish I could see his face but it almost seemed always out of focus.

He didn’t reply to the woman, looked out the window. His face eclipsed an early evening moon, the kind that comes before the sky becomes black.

I was astonished, hurt, annoyed, confused. They were watching me. They had been watching me. I took off my vest, curious.

“Oh wow, he took off his vest, how amazing.”

“You don’t have to be so bitter, Allie” the second woman replied, addressing the pearl necklaced girl. The youngest.

“But this movie just goes on and on. Why do we have to watch it?”

“It was Erin’s choice tonight,” the handsome man said, the older woman now nearly pressed into him. I’m surprised the scotch in their hands didn’t spill.

Apparently, Erin was the older woman sitting on the couch with Allie and the young man. Her face was in her hands now, cheeks pressed up to her ears almost. She was pretty, in an anxious sort of way. Her eyes flashed. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t place it. I found myself staring.

I got up, and walked around to the side of the screen, pulled on it. It was just a projector screen, no one behind it. The characters rippled when I released the tarpaulin.

“What’s he doing now?” It sounded like the handsome man.

“I think he’s going insane.”

I crossed back to my seat and sat down. I shouted, “I’m not insane! What is this?”

“Yep, insane,” Allie answered.

“Okay, so how does this fit in with the character?” the younger man asked.

Well, Joseph…” she smiled at him “It doesn’t. That’s just it. The choices this character make are nonsensical. Like, okay, so he spent his whole adolescent life wanting to write screenplays for films, and then, what, he goes to school and everyone tells him he can’t make money at it, that the industry is ‘too oversaturated,’ so he writes reviews? Where’s the passion, or the strife? It makes no sense. If… if it’s what he loved, he should’ve pursued it.”

“I tried! The business is so hard!” I said. I couldn’t tell if they heard me or not.

“Look, he’s having a soliloquy.” Erin looked interested, scratching her chest absently.

“This isn’t Shakespeare; he’s probably just having a meltdown.”

“Well then, maybe this movie will end soon.”

I was horrified. I was being deconstructed by these people that seemed to have viewed my whole life like it was a movie.

And they were critiquing me!

I buttoned my vest, and went to the door, pulled on it.

Was it locked?

I jerked on it, it wouldn’t budge. I pushed, to the same result. I banged on the cold metal.

“Hey! Hey, help! Get me out of here!”

I heard the handsome man say “Hey, let’s get out of here.”

Erin replied “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, it’s getting late.”

“You too Mona?” Erin gaped, referring to the older woman.

“Yeah, I’d like it if Mark took me out.”

Erin aww-ed.

Mona spoke with authority, to the group “I’ll be back sometime tomorrow, I’m sure. Don’t eat everything please.”

Keys jangled, coats rustled.

“See ya next week.” Mark mumbled.

Everyone: “See ya!”

I realized no one was coming to get me.

I was trapped.

I ran to the projector glass, tried to peer inside, but the flash still obscured my view. I had to get out.

I turned to the screen. Mona and Mark were gone. David was now at the cabinet, filling up a taught shot of scotch. He looked into the glass, light dancing on his face. The other three remained on the couch, interested now.

What could I use?

I scanned the theater for anything I could work with, heavy, sharp, to bust the projector room glass. No axes, no

loose boards. I had an idea, and pursued it. I started methodically yanking on the armrests that were attached to the theater chairs on both sides; surely one would be loose enough to detach.

“Okay, this movie’s lost me,” Allie held the bridge of her nose.

“It looks like he’s trapped in the theater!” Erin said, her eyes darting around the inside of the theater.

“Ah!” Joseph breathed.

I watched them; I’d surveyed two rows now, and not a single arm rest would budge. But I had to escape. My head felt like I’d climbed a mountain all at once.

The pressure throbbed behind my eyes.

I tried not to think, not to linger.

“What?” Allie asked Joseph, a little annoyed.

“He’s trapped in the theatre! I love this.”

“You’re just too cute when you’re being a total geek,” Allie said.

“What’s David doing?” Erin asked, turning to a tipped hat from David.

David’s fine.

Joseph replied to Allie “Oh be quiet. It makes sense!”

“What does?”

“The whole thing! He’s literally ‘trapped in the theatre.’ Because he didn’t pursue his true, ya know, goal or dream or what have you, he has found himself trapped in the theatre. He can’t leave because he’s afraid of a life without the security of the income that reviewing generates. It’s like The Exterminating Angel, where the actors can’t leave the party. Literally.”

“I think you completely misunderstood Bunuel’s point with The Exterminating Angels. Angels? Angel?” Erin said, trying to remember the exact title.

“The point is, it’s a physical representation of what’s happening inside him. He has been trapped by the theatre.”

“Bravo, Joseph.” Allie clapped, half meaning it.

I found an arm rest that gave more than the others. I yanked on it, hard, without any yield. The cup holder was lined with dried soda. I stood back, angled my arms, and pulled, hard. I felt something come loose, and I re-attacked it. This time, it nearly flung over my shoulder as it detached.

Could I really break a window with this thing? It was awful light. Plastic, probably.

Crap.

I went for it anyways.

I climbed to the back of the theater, reared up, summoned summer strength with baseball nights, Dad, Budweiser, and threw myself into it.

“What do you think of this movie Allie? Like, overall?”

I summoned my anger with myself, my lust for Abigail, bitter rain, dark doorsteps, blood, I attacked the window. My reflection was in it.

It rang, my arm stiffened. I felt it give.

“Overall?”

The strength of a 3.6 GPA in a degree I never used, the weight of $25,000 in debt, the pieces of a broken spirit; gripped the armrest, with intention, let the glass have it.

“It falls short.”

My voice cracked a little, I think I was yelling, I didn’t know how strong I could really be.

“Devoid of purpose.”

Empty Friday nights, a cold bed, the passion of an artist who took life like a bullet between the eyes,

“Kinda sad.”

I took a biting shower with glass shards.

Relief flooded my veins.

The whole thing had shattered, and parts of my body that I tried to ignore stung with shards of the stuff that I’m sure

was embedded in my skin. I easily stepped up into the projector room, tired. No one was inside. Figures.

“He’s trying to escape!” I heard from the screen.

“It’ll do no good.”

“What do you mean Joseph?”

“No one ever escapes. They have kids, get grey, and die. And dreams get dusty awful quick.”

“Well that’s dark,” Erin said.

I looked for the door, found it at the opposite end of the room. I crossed behind the projector, flashes of white splashing from its mouth, and pulled on the door.

It was locked.

I cursed. Loudly, because well, no one was there. I hit the door a few times with the now glittering armrest, to no avail. I could really feel the glass then, buried in my face and neck. Burning. I thought I was bleeding somewhere. I wasn’t sure. The film rolled on, and all I could do was watch.

Erin said “I didn’t think this one was going to be bloody.”

“You don’t usually expect movies like this to be” Joseph’s voice was blank, his eyes full. Trying to ignore Erin’s discomfort.

“Y’all are a bunch of babies. I like it.” Allie seemed content to watch me suffer.

Erin was looking over her shoulder, toward the apartment window. “Hey David? David, doll, what are you doing?”

David was standing, window open, looking down to the street meditatively. You could hear the city's song from outside, faintly, humming.

Everyone turned to watch him.

He said nothing. He stepped towards the opening. His frightened hand shook, spilling scotch.

“David!”

“Will this movie end already? I’m tired of it.”

“Just…”

kill himself, let him do it already,” Allie said.

“Allie!”

“I was talking about the movie, Erin.” She turned in her seat. “David boy, don’t. Come watch the movie.” Joseph and Allie were equally invested in, well, me.

What if I ended the movie? I looked to the projector, the film rolling in its spools. It looked fragile. Maybe this would all end. I revved up, armrest in hand.

Allie breathed. “Do it.”

Erin cried “Oh my God!”

David fell. Down.

I smashed the projector, knocked the film askew. I cried. It hurt. The characters melted. David was gone.

~

Hey guys! I mentioned in a recent post that I had a story published in The Candelabra and, well, here it is! It also won the Lee Davis Lodge Award for Prose and earned me a handsome scholarship. (I think. Maybe I just got that because I'm awesome.)

Anyhow, thanks for reading! I hope you liked it. It's honestly a lot lighter than my recent stuff (not by much, but yeah).

God bless, and I hope y'all have a great day! <3