5

         Before the pandemic, I would go to films at the Northwest Film Center at least once a week, and more often if there was a series or director I liked being featured. They showed them in the auditorium at the museum, so I got to go for free. They did an amazing job of programming; when I think of all the wonderful movies I got to see over the years, I can scarcely believe my luck. Like the best films, it was like a beautiful dream, but then the pandemic hit and the credits rolled and the new director of the Film Center used the disruption as an excuse to reorganize and rebrand the entire organization. She has said she’s not interested in film as a medium, and it shows. The focus of the newly-dubbed Portland Art Museum Center for an Untold Tomorrow, or PAM CUT, will be on interdisciplinary and multimedia work that propels the institution into the future and pushes the boundaries of what… you know what, fuck it, I can’t even talk about it without getting upset. Film is dead, movies are boring, we get it. Come rent a virtual reality helmet, $50 for the weekend, $45 for members.

            When the Film Center (I refuse to use the new name) started showing movies again, they did so outside, on the top level of the parking garage at the mall. These were mostly crowd-pleasing mainstream flicks and even though I could go for free, I couldn't see the point. Once they started using the auditorium again, the selection got marginally better, but my bitterness about all the changes kept me away. (They showed a selection of movies starring Tilda Swinton, whom I like, but they dubbed the series “Tilda Whirl,” which I did not.)

            I finally give in and go to my first movie there since February 2020, when I saw a bunch of Agnès Varga films, culminating with the delightful Beaches of Agnès. It isn’t just the film center I’ve been neglecting; even though most of the cinemas are back up and running in some capacity, I've only been to about half a dozen screenings. Part of the trouble is there hasn’t been much I’ve been interested in. Part of it is anxiety.

            But I reserve a seat (which you never had to do before) and venture downstairs to see Miranda July’s latest movie, Kajillionaire. It was released online at the height of the pandemic and never made it to the theaters. I streamed it when it came out. July can be maddeningly precious at times, but she’s grown a lot both as a filmmaker and as an author, and she takes a lot of interesting chances.

            I get choked up just walking into the auditorium. Over the past two and a half years, I’d been through here numerous times to do patrols or turn on the lights, but not to actually sit and watch something. I sit close to the front as other people file in behind me. It's not a huge crowd. Slides for upcoming films flash on the screen and I think back with odd nostalgia on all the advertisements and sponsors whose names and logos would appear up there. It seems like so long ago. I am choked up and close to tears. I've had so many great experiences in this room, seen everything from Muppet movies to Hungarian epics to experimental collages. I've dragged so many friends here. I feel overwhelmed by all the changes, depressed by how much better so many aspects of my life were back then. I feel like I might collapse beneath the weight of loss.

            And then the lights go down, and the movie starts, and I give myself up to the wonder.