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

