I NEVER go to the first weekend showing of a movie. Period.
I hate crowds, stuffy theaters, sticky floors, and the inevitable crunch of popcorn that echoes like the sound of a thousand cows working their cud through the most violent shootings and the most tender love
scenes. Given half a chance, I’ll wait for it to come out on DVD.
So what was it that dragged me out on a humid Sunday evening to stand in a long line of people wearing “Bush, you’re fired” stickers and cargo pants? Yes, my spouse had something to do with it, but I didn’t object much beyond the initial tantrum.
I really wanted to see Michael Moore’s new movie,
Fahrenheit 9/11. In part, this is because it was clear that the movie was a movie of the moment – that it wouldn’t “keep” as well as some others might. That it was openly and unabashedly political and inflammatory also piqued my interest. But it was, above all, my
curiosity about the audience reaction that got me shuffling through those swinging doors.
So was it worth it? Let me put it this way, it certainly had its moments.
One came right at the beginning when, instead of showing the surreal footage of the planes flying into the WTC – footage we see over and over
again in the news and in our nightmares, and never without a frisson of horror – Moore left the screen black and let the soundtrack speak for itself.
The effect was devastating. The emptiness was filled by our imaginations,
while the insistent darkness evoked a black hole of utter loss and despair.
Around me, even the serious popcorn chewers had ceased their munching.
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