The Wurlitzer Descends, The Curtain Rises, The Lights Dim…

…but what about the soul
that grows in darkness, embossed by silvery images…
–Frank O’Hara, “Ave Maria”

When I first saw Citizen Kane, at the glorious Temple Theatre in old downtown Saginaw, Michigan, I didn’t quite get the thing. I was twelve years old and not aware that it was the greatest film ever made, that it was overrated to some, that it wrecked its filmmaker’s career, that it was anything but a movie. Kane starred the fat guy from the wine ads, and it was in glorious black & white, which made my imagination rage. “Citizen Kane?” I asked, when told by my pop what we were doing that summer evening (no air conditioning in the theater made it that much more of an experience, the humidity ripening an already thick mildewy aroma). But I was game: thus far, the classics we’d seen, from East of Eden to It Happened One Night to Singin’ in the Rain, had been doozies, films that would have knocked me off my feet had I not been sitting already. Films that had opened my eyes to the great possibility that there was more–much more–than what was playing at the local Cineplex. Looking back, I would argue that Citizen Kane is, in my mind, one of the best films you could ever show a twelve year old. It is The Little Prince of the big screen, an incredible journey through the solar system of adult life.

We cut to almost twenty five years later. The other day I received my official Movie Reviewer Card in the mail. It’s a little plastic number to go along with a secret decoder ring that allows me to decipher Film Comment and Village Voice critics, a thumb exerciser, a packet of stars and exclamation points, and Gene Shalit’s Pocket Treasury of Accessible Accolades.

Despite this, and despite the fact that I’ve now read a ton about Kane in particular, and movies in general, I still can’t claim to know anything about the films I’ve seen. Once the darkness envelops us, and the projector begins, we’re all on the same page. Often, I’m as baffled as anyone who’s ever seen a movie; other times a film will so move me that it’s meanings will seem as clear as a glass of gin.

Each Friday, if all goes as planned, you’ll see an early morning review of a film or films that are opening that weekend. Hopefully, if the Oak Street Cinema ever gets its act together, that might mean I eschew the new Superman for, say Winchester ’73, one of the most remarkable westerns ever made. If not, I’ll write about that gem during the week from my home theater, which isn’t anything more than a 19″ television and a DVD player that buzzes like an old box fan.

Even better, I want to know what you think of these movies. There’s a comment section: be my guest. I want to hear if you were moved by the menace of Cache, by Thelma Ritter’s weary death scene in Pickup on South Street, by the marine smacking Woodrow Lafayette Pershing Truesmith in Hail the Conquering Hero, one of the most underrated comedies ever, and ripe for a timely remake. Or not. Maybe you think Crash was as dopey a film as I did.

James Agee began his career as a film critic with: “I would like to use this column about moving pictures as to honor and discriminate the subject through interesting and serving you who are reading it. Whether I am qualified to do this is an open question to which I can give none of the answers.”

That about sums it up. Like Agee, my columns might just bewilder more than they enlighten. My hope is that when I fall deeply for a movie, when I’m lost for two plus hours in a darkened theater and emerge changed somehow, you’ll be intrigued enough to check it out yourself.