T
he
vigorous
string
melody
halted, and the film came to an
abrupt end. Dazed, my friend
Haoyu and I sat silently in the darkness of
State Theatre without moving an inch of
our bodies. When we heard the sound of
clapping from below us, we subconscious-
ly clapped along too. A warm yellow light
slowly re-illuminated the theater. While
people started getting up and preparing to
leave, Haoyu and I were still glued to our
seats, reluctant to let go of the beauty we
just collectively experienced.
“That was Vivaldi’s Four Seasons,
wasn’t it?” A blonde woman sitting to my
right asked her partner. “I wonder which
one.”
“Summer,” I replied to her in a quiet
and nasally voice, still wiping the tears
from my cheeks and cleaning my glasses.
We had just finished watching “Por-
trait of a Lady on Fire,” a French historical
romantic film that I couldn’t wait to see
ever since its initial release in the United
States. While walking back from State
Theatre to East Quad, through the Diag
and the stage set up for the Bernie Sanders
rally, Haoyu and I talked nonstop about
the film: Its absence of background music
and male characters, its exquisite focus on
facial expressions and the queer female
love. The experience felt like a pilgrimage,
where we exposed our most vulnerable in-
ner selves in a dark room of strangers. Our
lonely hearts, hardened by worldly affairs
like the tense political climate, depress-
ing job prospects and pressure from fam-
ily, opened up and were graced again by
passion and love. Before we parted, Haoyu
and I promised each other to attend more
local film screenings together in the fu-
ture.
Neither of us knew that it would be
the last time we saw each other for six
months. In less than one week, on March
13, the University had advised students to
return home as soon as possible. Two days
before, the Big Ten had then canceled the
remainder of its winter season, all study
abroad programs had been suspended un-
til April 21, and the spring commencement
had been canceled. I had to pack up all of
my belongings and say goodbye to all of
my friends within the span of two days,
flying back to Toronto before the borders
closed. Haoyu, struggling to find a plane
ticket back home to China, moved into her
friend’s house near Ann Arbor.
After 14 days of quarantine back in To-
ronto, I regained control of my own room
and made it my sanctuary. Behind my shut
bedroom door, I took refuge in cinema, as
it provided me with a sense of comfort and
detachment from the atrocities outside
my room. Sometimes at a friend’s house,
though most of the time alone, I wandered
through my Netflix recommendations.
From Hirokazu Kore-eda’s direction in
heartwarming family dramas to Ghibli
animations to Billy Wilder’s black and
white classics. These films, whether sad
or bittersweet, acted as my shield from
the outside world’s worsening xenopho-
bia, racism and violence, allowing me to
escape from reality and to the safe haven
of cinema.
Though I thoroughly enjoyed all the
films I watched on my own, the “bedroom
theater” experience was still unequal to
the in-person ones I had in Michigan.
Throughout the entire summer, I was
looking forward to when things returned
to normal and theaters would open again
without masks required upon entry. A
drive-in movie simply would not suffice.
Though the leather seats and air condi-
tioning are able to provide the viewers
with a false sense of comfort, the cold
hard metal separates us from the rest of
the audience, rendering a supposedly col-
lective experience an isolated one.
There is something about a crowded,
dark room and the tiny, red seats that fos-
ter something personal yet surreal. I have
always found consuming good art a very
demanding process because it requires me
to exhaust my emotional energy to truly
understand and empathize with the artist
or artist’s characters. Therefore, to expose
myself in such a vulnerable state and un-
dergo such a process is both intimate and
valuable to my viewing experience.
To me, the audience in the theater are
time travelers who happened to stumble
upon the same time machine. Our bodies
get sucked into the black hole of cinema
as our souls distort and mesh with each
other. By the time the credits roll and
light refills the room, we leave and return
to our ordinary lives, but we carry with us
a shared sentiment and love unique to the
stories we witnessed together.
I remember when my friend Sarah and
I went to a “Parasite” screening together,
excited for the Korean film’s debut in Ann
Arbor. As the film’s climax approached,
we looked at each other with our mouths
opened in a silent scream and clutched
each other’s hands tightly like little kids
tucked under the same blanket. I remem-
ber how the entire theater held their
breath as (spoiler alert) Mister Kim picked
up the knife from the lawn and stabbed it
through Mr. Park’s chest.
The deafening silence was nowhere
near awkward or uncomfortable, but
rather an embodiment of how a room of
strangers can be united through an im-
mersive experience in art without verbal
interaction. In this case, the audience
communicated through their silence. It
was our collective affirmation in the film’s
shrewd yet harsh portrayal of our society
— a silent echo of our common humanity.
W
hen Gov. Gretchen Whit-
mer announced that theaters,
bowling alleys and other per-
formance venues will be able to reopen on
Oct. 9, I was shocked. While I am delighted
that theaters will be back in business and
welcome movie fanatics back to their ven-
ues, I still hold a sense of skepticism about
the policy’s feasibility.
Though the theaters will only be allowed
at 20% capacity, the local Ann Arbor theaters
are still narrow spaces with possibly inade-
quate air circulation, especially since smaller
theaters have less funding to upgrade their
buildings. Many questions come to mind:
Will people’s temperatures be taken upon
entry and concessions be allowed during
the film? Will I be able to enjoy the films the
same way I did before the pandemic?
The most important element of attend-
ing a film in person is not the moving pic-
tures playing on the big screen, but rather
the memories I make with my friends and
the collective experience that I share with
the other viewers. The effectiveness of the
public health precautions largely depend
on the viewers’ choice to follow them, but
with the University of Michigan’s dras-
tic increase of weekly COVID-19 cases, I
must regretfully admit that I feel unsafe in
our community.
Every so often, I daydream about the
next time I will have an intimate experi-
ence at a movie theater, just like when I
went to see “Portrait of a Lady on Fire.”
I picture the lights dimming, the pictures
pulling me in like a warm blanket, gently
wrapping around me, gradually lulling the
audience while we embark on a journey to
the mystic dreamland of cinema. Yet now,
as the pandemic rages and our country
hurts, this daydream feels far away; the
blanket remains threadbare and tattered,
and I will not be tucking myself in for a
long time to come.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
14 — Wednesday, October 7, 2020
statement
Intimacy Denied:
Reopening theaters
during a pandemic
BY LOLA YANG, STATEMENT CORRESPONDENT
ILLUSTRATION BY MAGGIE WIEBE
ILLUSTRATION BY MAGGIE WIEBE