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Beware the Ides of March

On this the Ides of March, Anno Domini 2020, I finally faced annihilation head-on.

I had girded myself for the prospect - outfitted with a hip flask of applejack (the closest thing to good French Calvados on hand), a half-liter of beer, and my own sense of reckless immortality, I proceeded to my local arthouse theater for a presumably-final cinema viewing of my latest obsession, Portrait de la Jeune Fille en Feu. When I say “presumably,” I mean of course to factor in both the fact that social institutions are shutting down in light of an unprecedented pandemic response to COVID-19, and the fateful circumstance that, after long delay in getting here, Portrait is in its final week of local theatrical runtime here in my artsy, liberal corner of Virginia. I had rather blithely, and admittedly obsessively, committed myself to 15 previous cinema viewings at the two venues in town that opted to carry it - Alamo Drafthouse and Violet Crown eternal blessings upon them. Of those 15, I had usually been by myself, attending at various times of day or night to factor in varied emotional cycles, but on rare occasions had been accompanied by a single friend.

In the wake of the generous, exhausting press tour that the film’s director, Céline Sciamma, and her two incandescent female leads (Noémie Merlant and Adèle Haenel) had embarked upon after Cannes in May of 2019, I already knew, with an impending sense of doom mirrored by the film’s plot, that our time together in the black boxes of various theaters was drawing to a close. An obsession, borne of a happy accident in time management during last October’s Virginia Film Festival, had morphed into my utter devotion to the message and artistry of the film, such that I resolved, upon its long-delayed local release in late February, to see it as many times as possible. And under a myriad of circumstances, to the tune of pouring all available financial and temporal resources at my disposal into showing this film - and its marvelous creators - my love. In short, though a devotee of the medium since my early youth, this was (and is) a film that became a touchstone in my life - a rubric on how to appreciate not only the subtleties of the cinematic medium in terms of storytelling, but also on how to savor the sweet joys and sorrows of all that is beautiful, empowering, and transient in life. Moreover, Portrait forced a confrontation with my own personal relationship to love and loss, and in turn and by yearning happenstance, opened my heart to a whole community of like-minded people who shared with me the sense of finally being SEEN and represented and remembered by a great piece of artistic collaboration. People of Tumblr and the p.28 Discord, I’m looking (respectfully and gratefully) at you.

So there I am tonight, doggedly determined in the midst of a pandemic crisis, to sit through one more all-but-private screening of my favorite film. Armed with emotional lubricant in the form of copious alcohol, relatively sure in the knowledge that this could be the end of the cinematic road for awhile, I’m sipping away at my flask of applejack, checking in with family during the previews (memorized by now after repeat viewings). I’m awaiting the the emotional catharsis that I know, with long practice, the screening is soon to evoke. I’ll never know if it was the chill that went down my spine when my public-policy-connected brother informed me, via text, that within 48 hours we’d be under mandatory quarantine. I don’t know if it was the strong liquor compounding this sense of dread, easing its externalization to the fore of my emotional output. I don’t know if it was once again the film itself, which hasn’t failed to make me cry every time after that initial shell-shocked discovery in late October. Drawing me in to a love story for the ages, only to leave me destroyed and nostalgic and ever-yearning. But tonight, finally, instead of a few moments of silent tears, I absolutely lost it. A full span of early tears, stifled gasps, and full-on sobs once I got home. It’s over, I have to say goodbye, c’est fini. And I’m sad. Instead of deciding, per the film’s line that “à un moment, on s’arrête,” that decision has all but been made for me by exterior factors.

So my cinematic journey with this timeless masterpiece of a film is likely over, at least until the powers that be dig it up every so often and do special screenings over the coming years. Maybe if I’m lucky, Céline, Noémie, or Adèle will make an appearance and share new insights. I can only hope...

When I got to double digits last week and realized Violet Crown would be generously holding it over for another week, my heart leapt and I somewhat arbitrarily decided to try for 20. For those interested, I think my previous record for cinematic repeats was 3, and I’m not even certain to which film that would apply. Maybe something Star Wars or LOTR...

Tonight I completed my 16th large-screen viewing of Portrait, including that fateful night in late October that changed everything. Between my own sense of prudence (or possibly guilt) in wanting to abide by social distancing, and the likelihood that we will, within the next day or two, all be quarantined in our homes subject to the Stafford Act, I think my cinematic journey with this masterpiece is at long last ending. Like so many beautiful, intangible priceless things in life that came before. But what a marvelous journey it’s been, what a devastating, glorious, cathartic ride. I still shed tears over what was and what may be, but a broken heart is an open heart. And my heart is so replete and overflowing because of this film.

En avant, et bon courage. Be good to each other, y’all.