Hollywood Story

(excerpt from a work in progress)

The greatest movie ever made isn’t what anyone thinks it is. It has never been screened at a film festival and hasn’t won any awards. Film Studies textbooks don’t mention it, and you won’t find it on any streaming service. It’s not overwrought, overproduced, or overhyped. No critics ever speak of it, and none of the ‘Best’ lists include it.  There are no spaceships, Nazis, yellow bricks, guns, or snow sleds. Instead, it’s a quiet, uncomplicated story told through superlative artistry, production, and performances, all of which leave everyone’s favorites a mile behind. But few have seen it, and I am one of the lucky ones. I am, in fact, the last to have seen—the last who will ever see—the greatest movie ever made. 

I wasn’t supposed to see it. I think the invitation to do so was somewhat spontaneous, something to pass the time. Or maybe it was intentional, used to keep me humble. Mission accomplished. Actually, I haven’t been the same since. The day before I saw it, I had someone else’s name and was convinced I was destined for stardom. The day after, I adopted a new professional persona, completely reordered my priorities, and had no tangible evidence that the film ever existed.

It started with a slow, gentle clicking, steadily accelerating to a gentle whir. The light around me fell, and a long, widening beam from behind cut through the darkness, revealing an unsettling amount of dust in the air. I had experienced it all before, of course, and each time the darkness awakens, I feel the thrill of not knowing what is about to happen or where I am headed. There is nothing better. Every time, I’ll willingly take the ride, regardless of where it leads. 

The air in the room carried a faint, not entirely unpleasant aroma of musty disuse, reminiscent of an old, unvisited library or attic. The air conditioning was blowing at a goosebump-inducing temperature, but I didn’t care; I was comfortable in a burgundy velvet armchair—almost too comfortable. Its worn, overstuffed cushions pulled me in like quicksand. But once the title card appeared, I unconsciously broke free from my comfortable discomfort, sitting upright and motionless, as focused as a birdwatcher. Soon, my heart would be broken and at the mercy of that series of images, each so striking that every other film I had ever seen, even those I considered the best of the best, would be relegated to amateur status.   

Ninety minutes later, I was still frozen in that same position. On the screen, there had been a gentle, caressing grace to it all, and a warmth—no, a safety—in its elegantly told truth. All the while, its intimacy was so intense that I felt like an intruder who had no business watching. It was private and provocative, not only because of its visuals or words, but also because of the questions it posed, the kind we can only ask of ourselves. It was like stepping back from a painting, until the elements I had been examining up close could be seen in their full context, and the work spoke as a whole. Tears dropped from my eyes without warning. How did this film exist? Nothing I had ever seen before came close. It was everything. Everything. 

Slowly, the lights rose to a comfortable level, and the projection ended. I listened as the film was rewound, slowing to its gentle clicking before stopping. 

“Lionel, would you care to join me in the sitting room?” The question came from a projection booth behind me. 

I wanted to say no. I wanted to stay in that strange old screening room, which at some point in time must have been considered state-of-the-art. It felt as if every one of my emotions had awakened at once. I didn’t want to take those feelings out into the world, fearing I would lose them. Unfortunately, I didn’t have much of a choice. I was a guest.