Cinema(tic)
Strange things afoot at the movies
This may be the year I resume watching movies in the theater, if only for the wild things that take place.
I typically watch films on planes—I’ve seen every Fast and the Furious on a seatback. The last time I saw a movie in a theater was in March, for research purposes. However, enough friends with good taste persuaded me that Nicole Kidman and Harris Dickinson’s liaison needed to be experienced on the big screen, so, two weeks ago, the Saturday before the L.A. fires, I saw Babygirl in a big theater, every seat full.
If you don’t know the premise, Kidman plays a CEO who has an affair with an intern, in which they explore power dynamics. It’s erotic, comic, and consensual. That said, about three-quarters of the way in, during a very tense scene, a man off to my left, in the dark, yelled loudly, as though the word was ripped from his lungs: “Rape!”
Heads turned. People whispered, what’d he say? Did he say that?
As though he’d cried out “fire,” but not quite.
Fire is obviously on my mind, but this preempted things. I’ve spent the last week or so doing what everyone else in Los Angeles is doing—feeling anxious, wearing a mask, volunteering, feeling depressed, one day micro-dosing vodka at four p.m. Like everybody, I have family and friends that got burned out of their houses. Like everybody, except for Twitter trolls, I’ve cried numerous times out of sadness, but also joy sometimes, to witness all the tremendous displays of humanity. And I’m reporting, studying, and writing a ton about what’s happening—there was a GQ piece last weekend about my final conversations with the great Mike Davis, and a piece yesterday in National Geographic, and more is forthcoming in other outlets.
This anecdote, however, I saved for the newsletter.
What I love about movie theaters is the shared adventure. That submission we make as a group, to release control and accept not knowing what happens next. In such an instance, what does it mean to cry out, as though in protest? No one was being violated; there’s no rape in the film, in fact there’s very little sex. What occurred inside the man, or had occurred to him previously, to instigate his call?
A moment later, a guy got up from the left side of the theater, crossed the room in everyone’s view, and left. My impression was he wasn’t the yeller, maybe a neighbor who moved from discomfort, though really, I have no idea. Then, a minute later, a young woman sitting in front of me said loudly, “I can’t take this, I’m too anxious,” and she stood up and departed, with several friends.
Thirty seconds later, a group of other people nearby stood up and left, too.
Suddenly people were on their phones. A sense of panic roiled. Within a minute or two, approximately eighty percent of the audience—a hundred people or so—were on their feet, hurrying for the doors.
The power of hysteria is extraordinary, stunning to witness—to see animal selves take control of motor function and pursue safety, and flee. I don’t mean any of this callously. The sky where I live is no longer clouded by smoke, but it was recently. My car on different mornings was speckled with ash. I’ve certainly felt an impulse to run, to get away, to breathe clean air. At the same time, my work is here, and I’m also more inclined to thrust myself into such moments, to hold the moment close as possible and feel it, really feel.
After the deluge, there were only about 20 of us left in the theater. What happened next, I’m not sure where it came from—I’m an Eagle scout, and I used to work on an ambulance, maybe that played a role—but I stood up and said calmly, “Am I right in thinking that a guy shouted something, a couple people walked out, and then everyone else left in a rush?”
A bunch of people assented. “That’s how I see it,” one guy said.
“So let’s all check in,” I said. “Is everybody okay?”
A bunch of people said yes. A woman near me said, “Yeah, let’s just finish the movie.”
At that point, there were only 15 minutes left. Gradually, a few people trickled back in, as if they weren’t sure why they’d run. Minutes later, several people standing in one of the exits started to complain loudly: this is bullshit, they were going to talk to the manager, they wanted the movie to be rewound. A member of the audience got up and asked them to please be quiet. Two minutes later, a theater employee walked through, assessing things, with a ring of keys on his belt. He exited and loudly told the people in the hall that he was going to rewind the film.
“Oh, fuck that,” a woman sitting near me said.
I got up and walked over to him. “Excuse me, can you please keep your voice down? We’re trying to finish the movie and there’s only a couple minutes left.”
“Bro, it’s cool,” he said. (He called me bro.) “Don’t worry, we’re going to rewind the film, you can watch it over.”
A person behind me shouted, “Do not rewind the fucking movie!”
“Dude,” I said. “Don’t rewind the film.”
He shrugged and left. I returned to my seat. The credits rolled five minutes later.
What is cinema anyway? To some degree, a contract between two parties, the movie and the audience. It is its own exercise in power dynamics, similar to how jokes work, similar to what Nicole Kidman explored with her lover: one party elects to submit, and in that exchange, repressed thoughts surface. Repressed desires and injuries can rise up, and old feelings come yowling out. In the dark, for ninety minutes, we let go of our inhibitions, and that’s a powerful experience—though within that give and take, if someone cries, if people run from instinct, don’t they deserve respect? Similar to how a “safe word” functions in sexual dynamics, when power is explored.
This is America in 2025, which means guns, exploding Cybertrucks, and a pervasive sense of powerlessness. Everyone in that theater had every reason to run. I’d like to say, as a man in his forties, very little surprises me—my city burning, the trolls trolling, denial of the climate crisis becoming de facto policy. But now Canada is up for annexation, and Greeland appears to be up for sale. The collective unconscious has a lot more cries to come.
Also this: on my way out, I heard a woman say in the lobby, “American audiences just can’t handle erotic movies.”
See you in the theater.
𓀠 Hi. I’m able to write these meditations thanks to paying subscribers. Your support truly makes a difference in my writing life.
Level up and enjoy tomorrow’s supplement with three-plus things to love—new music, great books, and cool stuff generally.
Tomorrow’s three-plus things—
Preparedness tips for people living amidst the threat of disasters, i.e., everybody
The best jazz albums from last year, and a great art doc on YouTube. Also, a mellow new playlist from a DJ friend.
My favorite new concentration hack that’s paying dividends
❀ Hey, if you’re a writer looking for help—editing, coaching, brainstorm magic—I highly recommend collaborating with my partner, editor Rachel Knowles.
Rachel has helped me significantly, not to mention a lot of other writers—novelists, screenwriters, Substack-ers, the gamut! Whether you’re aspiring or established, everyone needs an editor. More info at her website.
What the what
“Meditations in an Emergency” is a weekly essay from writer Rosecrans Baldwin about something beautiful. Paying subscribers receive a Sunday supplement with three-plus things to love, plus the monthly “Humans Being Humans” ballyhoo.
Rosecrans is a correspondent for GQ, a contributor at Travel + Leisure, and the bestselling author of Everything Now: Lessons From the City-State of Los Angeles, winner of the California Book Award. Other books include The Last Kid Left and Paris, I Love You but You’re Bringing Me Down. His debut novel, You Lost Me There, was a New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice.
For books, articles, bio, and contact info: rosecransbaldwin.com.
Everybody is clearly not OK, but they’re lucky to have you asking after them. Thank you for this.