Today we’re welcoming Rylan Shewmaker to the post calvin. Rylan (’21) will be writing on the 20th of every month. She calls herself a geographer, though none of her degrees substantiate this. After growing up in Texas and studying in Grand Rapids, she moved to Brussels, Belgium, for her master’s degree in urban studies. She still lives in Brussels and works for a housing non-profit. She enjoys audiobooks, bike commuting, sunny days, and learning new things.
The night air of January is cold as the warmth of the movie theater releases me. It’s a Monday evening, and the film I’ve just seen on impulse has become the first film I’ve cried over in…a year? My thoughts linger on a sidewalk goodbye while waiting for a taxi, a walk back home, a tearful hug on the front steps… The screening of Past Lives has ended and my journey back home has begun. With my headphones off, favorite lines of dialogue play the role usually attributed to music. A fog begins to gather.
I’ve recently begun taking drawing classes, so please allow me to fill in the background of this tableau: In a gray and wet city, I found myself newly living apart from my housemates–turned–close friends and grappling constantly with “the Bed Monster”—a part of myself completely lacking in regard for alarms, a well-timed breakfast, or the outside world and primarily concerned with either 1) more sleep or 2) more TikTok. My long-term relationship with visual media had hit a bit of a streaming-facilitated slump, defined by a constant return to the familiar (think Gilmore Girls, Succession) broken up by the intermittent binging of the highly dramatic. It was high-time to rediscover a spark. Enter: my local cinema card.
The first time that I went to see a film by myself, I felt self-conscious and slightly embarrassed. Growing up, going to the movies was an elaborate and rare family ritual, everyone loading into the minivan to go see the latest summer blockbuster. Showing up by myself and having no one to make eye contact with during the film, no one to share my favorite jokes with afterwards as we stumble out of the dark theater, felt like a loss.
Some three years later, going to the movies by myself is a freshly-cultivated joy. After several months with my cinema card and interspersed with date nights and group showings of Poor Things, I’ve establishing the following ritual for independent movie-going: 1) Arrive at the theater with a bag of sour candy and almost no prior knowledge of the film to be watched; 2) Watch film, making only a moderately obnoxious amount of noise in opening said sour candy; 3) Walk home forty-five minutes in a sort of post-movie haze.
This last step has been a particular revelation.
Do you know that feeling, when the end credits roll and you’re walking down the steps to the exit, and you still feel like you’re in another dimension? The story that you entered briefly clings to you—a kitchen smell lingering after you’ve finished a meal—but is quickly dissipated by a long bathroom line, a walk to your car through the parking lot, a discussion over what to do next. By myself and in walking distance from the theater, I get to leave the story on simmer, floating home in its metaphor-mixing fog.
Each post-film fog has its own distinct flavor, of which the following have been particularly noteworthy:
La Chimera. Tasting description: Haunting, complex, and full-bodied. May leave one desirous of a second watch and a linen suit.
The Second Act. Tasting description: Punchy and riotous on first taste, it leaves a surprising and persistent note of ontological questioning.
The Zone of Interest. Tasting description: An acrid horror of sound and mundanity, it holds a mirror to one’s own life and complicity. Strong aftertaste—anticipate a duration of multiple hours.
Past Lives. Tasting description: Initially soft, its flavor grows to reveal a melancholic and tender longing. Pairs well with introspection on the branching nature of one’s own life.
I must confess that, despite the above tribute, my movie-going is sporadic at best. With my attendance of one to two films per month, my cinema card almost certainly does not “pay for itself.” My frugal father, whose voice accompanies my every attempted purchase, would be astounded at this waste. However, what I’ve been learning about myself in my post-graduation, real-adult life is that I thrive with positive freedom. Desire and free time are insufficient conditions for me to actually realize the things I want to do—I also need an externally-imposed structure. Without this, I quickly become reacquainted with the aforementioned Bed Monster.
My cost-ineffective cinema card frees me to be spontaneous on weekday evenings. It frees me from the pressure of loving every movie I watch and allows me to select a film based only on its start time and its poster. It frees me to turn my phone fully off for two hours. It frees me to savor a story instead of wolfing it down, to rest in it and digest it well instead of moving quickly on to the next thing.
Perhaps I am a reforming media glutton. Perhaps others can better internally motivate themselves to self-betterment. For now, at least, I have my flavorful fogs and a cinema card.
Rylan Shewmaker (‘21) calls herself a geographer, though none of her degrees substantiate this. After growing up in Texas and studying in Grand Rapids, she moved to Brussels, Belgium, for her master’s degree in urban studies. She still lives in Brussels and works for a housing non-profit. She enjoys audiobooks, bike commuting, sunny days, and learning new things.
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I recently have discovered something similar to a cinema card in my city and have been enjoying film in a whole new way!
I especially loved “when the end credits roll and you’re walking down the steps to the exit, and you still feel like you’re in another dimension? The story that you entered briefly clings to you—a kitchen smell lingering after you’ve finished a meal…”
You captured this feeling perfectly. I remember feeling this way after seeing The Boy and the Heron last December; my first Hayao Miyazaki film I ever saw in a theater. What a great read!
Ah, thanks for commenting Sophia! I still haven’t seen a Miyazaki film in theaters, but he’s one of the few directors whose films feel this way even when you watch them on your couch.