It would be unfair to suggest this town doesn’t support the arts

It would be unfair to suggest this town doesn’t support the arts
                        

I don’t even need my toes to count the number of other people who were in the theater when my wife and I saw two new movies.

For “Yesterday,” there was one.

For “Once Upon a Time … in Hollywood,” there were seven.

That adds up to eight.

Now it ought to be stated at the outset that they were both early-afternoon screenings, meaning a lot of folks were either working or at the beach. It would be unfair and misleading to suggest this little town doesn’t do its best to support the arts.

And I must admit that having the place nearly to myself fed a part of my soul that thrives on its solitary comforts, especially because other people tend to annoy me, no matter the setting.

It’s a character flaw, one that’s deeply rooted in a toxic cocktail of arrogance and narcissism, a heady brew I’ve been imbibing since I first realized the old maxim “love your neighbor as yourself” didn’t really apply to me.

From my first dorm-room assignment to my first apartment, I’ve had issues with forced relationships, and I tend to be very bad at disguising my disgust with those I consider to be, well, mediocre.

At Notre Dame I put in for a change of rooms within a month and, years later, was tossed from that apartment before my lease was up.

In truth the landlord rented my unit to a favored relative, not because I’d violated any terms of the contract I’d signed, but the point remains valid.

I don’t play well with others.

My mother recognized this genetic hand-me-down trait in her first born early on and did everything she could to nurture the alienation it ushered in. As an unabashed admirer of the Confederacy, she saw a lot of herself in Scarlett O’Hara, the heroine of “Gone With the Wind.”

And whenever that movie was shown on television, it was great fun watching her tear up when Vivien Leigh declared, “As God as my witness, I’ll never go hungry another day!”

Yep, Mom loved Katie Scarlett and Tara and the noble notion of fighting for a lost cause, a battle that couldn’t be won. She also took great solace in the wisdom found in those six famous words: “After all, tomorrow is another day.”

I don’t think she particularly cared for Rhett Butler’s epic exit line — “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn” — but she didn’t walk out of the family room when Clark Gable delivered it.

We didn’t do a lot of TV watching as a familial unit, not really, unless you count things like the JFK burial or the moon landing, life-altering events that were nonoptional viewing. In fact, when Nixon resigned, my parents and siblings were vacationing in Michigan, and I watched at home with my girlfriend.

She was two years younger and not especially interested in Watergate, though she possessed poise and patience, among other admirable virtues, and was willing to bear witness to history.

At one point she asked, “Do you want to be alone?”

“Of course not,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

“I guess,” she said, “because I’m getting to know you better.”

She was a sweetie, for sure, and probably has little — if any — recollection of that August night 45 summers ago, and that’s perfectly fine with me. I’m nothing if not uncomfortably aware of the way my peculiar blend of idiosyncratic charm and outright nastiness can jolt those who might consider me a romantic partner.

It would be easy to blame growing up Catholic for my inability to always see myself as others might, but that would be wrong. At some point even I could predict with unerring accuracy how easily I could napalm a burgeoning relationship by a simple word choice.

“Wait a second,” I’d say. “I didn’t mean ‘everyone’ in your religion was doomed to hell. I should have said ‘most everyone.’”

These days, of course, I haven’t been to church — aside from weddings or funerals — in nearly 20 years, and I sometimes worry this is being counted against me somehow, as if a supreme being is keeping score. People sometimes ask me if I still even pray, and I try to be honest, saying something like, “Of course … old habits die hard.”

But I don’t fear death, not anymore, not really. It would be nice to live a lot longer, but again, old habits catch up with you, eventually.

Which brings us back to “Once Upon a Time … in Hollywood,” director Quentin Tarantino’s homage to a bygone era in film-making, one that lovingly paints a layered portrait of pop-culture references, a killer soundtrack and, in its heart of hearts, an aching wish to alter the actual past, to give it all a happy ending.

If you haven’t seen it, you should, and if you have, you should see it again. I’m not sure how the other seven people in the theater felt, but I felt like standing up and cheering when Tarantino did his Tarantino best to bid adieu to Los Angeles in the summer of 1969.

I’ve been alone in a theater many times, but only once was I the only paying patron, and that was for a screening of “Schindler’s List.” That was just as well because I detest weeping in public.

Beyond Tarantino and Steven Spielberg, though, I can’t think of any filmmakers whose newest work I would actually pay to see. Most of what passes for entertainment these days is either Marvel Comics-driven or some kind of sequel to a franchise that refuses to die a graceful death and just go away.

One of the previews of coming attractions I saw last week was — brace yourself — yet another installment in the “Rambo” series.

I don’t know when or if my wife and I will go back to the movies.

I’ll leave that up to her because both “Yesterday” and “Once Upon a Time” were my ideas, and I certainly owe it to her to have a turn.

Or two.

I wish we had one of the revival houses down here, you know, the sort of place where vintage movies are shown in a classic setting, one that captures the spirit of the past while catering to the needs of the high-tech present.

But that’s more for big cities, and I have no desire to live in one of those places: all those people, all those kids, all that noise.

It’s getting to the point where I can barely tolerate a day at the beach, what with the summer crowds and all the chaos they bring.

In a perfect world, it’d be me and my wife, period.

Well, there might be the occasional shark, but we’ll deal with it.


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