Matinee manifesto

**My hometown theater in its glory days**

I have loved movies since I was a child. I grew up in a small town that had a beautiful old (even when I was young) theater downtown – the Virginia – and nothing was more exciting to me than going to see a matinee on a Saturday afternoon. The Virginia had burgundy velvet roping attached to brass fixtures in the lobby and a heavy ornate curtain that opened slowly before each show and an older gentleman in a uniform with a bow tie would take my ticket. It all felt so glamorous to me – a kid in a little town 2,500 miles away from Hollywood.

I know I must have seen a lot of Disney films there as a kid, but they aren’t the ones I remember. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid is one of the first films I clearly recall seeing. It was such an adventure – and to be fair, I probably fell in love with Katherine Ross on the handlebars of that bicycle. I also vividly recall an older cousin taking me and his brother to see Rosemary’s Baby when I was around 12. He was almost ten years older than us – I guess that’s how he got us into an R rated movie. He was supposed to be “watching” us while our parents were shopping or something. By the way, that cousin went on to become a MAGA – so his inappropriate decision-making tracks.

**How could I not fall in love with the movies?**

Anyway, I remember being terrified, but also intrigued by the whole look of the film – so different than anything I’d ever seen before. And even if I didn’t understand the story, I think that’s when I first realized that movies don’t have to be technicolor and cheerful. My mother was furious when she found out and I had a few nightmares, but seeing (okay, I may have hid my eyes a few times) Rosemary’s Baby only increased my curiosity for films. That said, horror movies are not my preferred genre at all. I mean, just hearing the opening notes of “Tubular Bells” (the theme from The Exorcist) creeps me out a bit.

But I did find myself at The Bride! last weekend. The film, written and directed by Maggie Gyllenhaal, is a wild reimagining of Mary Shelley’s Bride of Frankenstein storyand doesn’t neatly fit within the horror genre. Honestly, it doesn’t fit into any genre. It’s a musical, a comedy, a romance and most of all – a scathing narrative about agency that explores consent and self-definition in bold, violent, and visually spectacular ways. Is it messy? Sometimes. Is it slow? Never. Did it make me have to process a lot of my own feelings? Yes. And I loved it!

My wife and I sat on the end of a row near the back of the theater and five young women – all in their 20’s – stepped over us to take their seats right before the film started. After the movie, we went to the restroom and from my stall, I could hear a bunch of women excitedly talking. When I came out, I saw that it was them. One of them was saying how relatable the film was to today’s issues. I couldn’t help but jump into the conversation and we all kept chiming in about things we loved about the movie. Later, I thought about how cool it was that two women in their 60’s and five women four decades younger, were united in their impressions of a film.

Alas, The Bride! opened to mixed reviews and very poor box office. And honestly, that pisses me off. I sat through seven trailers of upcoming films on Sunday – most of them loud apocalyptic mashups of mayhem that have already been made – mostly by men. So freaking boring.

The dismal box-office of The Bride! is getting a lot of attention because of the film’s $80 million budget and the fact that it’s written and directed by a woman. The Oscars are this Sunday and in the 97-year history of the Academy Awards, only nine women have been nominated for Best Director. This isn’t breaking news – the film industry, like most industries, is male dominated. And women are held to a different standard – a storyline as old as time – and when they are tagged as a fiscal failure, the stakes are even higher.

Maggie Gyllenhaal is an acclaimed actor and her directorial debut, 2021’s The Lost Daughter, was a critical success on Netflix – and was made on a shoestring budget of $5 million. I hope she is given the opportunity to direct again – soon. She gives voice – with vivid imagery – to aspects of the female experience that are often drowned out by the mob mentality of the herd. And I love that she is not afraid to take big swings – I find that exhilarating.

She’s also one strong broad. I saw her on Late Night with Seth Myers on Monday night – mere hours after the crushing weekend box-office numbers were reported. You would have thought her film had broken all records – she was so confident, assured, and vibrant as she talked about her film. And she seemed terribly amused by the comments that she had made a fearless and daring film. She laughed and said, “This is a movie made for a movie theater. If you love movies, go see them.”

What she said – just don’t take your 12-year-old cousin.

A river runs through me

Is it just me or do you find yourself crying more easily – and often – these days? And I’m not talking about sorrowful crying like when you miss the dearly departed or your beloved pet, and/or democracy although there’s plenty of those tears to go around. No, I mean the watery emotional response to television, movies, and reels type crying. This kind of reaction has never been foreign to me, but lately I’m a blubbering mess – and I make no apologies for it. Any reminder of our humanity in these dark days – however damp – is a good thing.

Those animal rescue Instagram reels have always made me tear up, but the other day I watched an emergency responder crawl across an icy lake on his belly to aid a struggling deer who could not get back up on the ice. The close up of the deer’s eyes -clearly frightened – but trusting of the burly man in his neon jacket – broke me. Thank God I was sitting at my desk at the time so there were no witnesses to my weeping. Note: Don’t worry, the deer is fine. Me? TBD.

The first six weeks of 2026 have been an Olympic test of endurance for those of us with a thimbleful of compassion and empathy and there have been days we have wobbled and crashed like those figure skaters in Milan who have looked like that deer in the rescue reel. I feel you.

And if the continuous pummeling of our cherished freedoms – including the public execution of American citizens on the streets of Minneapolis – isn’t enough to bring you to your knees – throw in the kidnapping of Savannah Guthrie’s 84-year-old mother and the deaths of some beloved stars like Catherine O’Hara and James Van Der Beek. No wonder I’m dehydrated.

**RIP James Van Der Beek, March 8, 1977 – February 11, 2026**

I’m only slightly embarrassed to admit that I was a big Dawson’s Creek fan. Yes, I was closer to my 30^th high school reunion than graduation when it aired, but what’s your point? I enjoyed a remarkably pleasant high school experience – even if I thought I was the only gay in the village – and I think Dawson’s reminded me of that happy time in my life. The show dealt with themes important to me – family, friendship and community, And even though the show tackled some tough issues – like grief – there was always some warm, soft lens nostalgic comfort about it – and I find myself longing for Capeside these days.

Thankfully, I have the charming little village of Darrowby in the Yorkshire Dales of England to wallow in this month. That’s the setting for the PBS series All Creatures Great and Small based on the autobiographical books by veterinary surgeon James Herriot. The show, now in its sixth season, begins in the mid-1930s and follows the life of a good-natured veterinarian and focuses on the connection and community between the animals and humans in the town. Warning: You will become deeply attached to all of the fine characters, especially Mrs. Hall, the wise and compassionate housekeeper who is always at the ready with a nice cup of tea. No matter what is transpiring in the story, she always makes me feel like everything will be okay.

This week’s episode centered around the long-awaited end of World War II and the small village’s celebration of VJ Day. Everyone meets on the green in the center of town to share food and drink and you can feel their cumulative anguished relief. Everyone in the village – and the entire nation -has suffered and sacrificed for years. An elderly farmer, known as a man of few words, removes his cap and stands to speak and in a voice weathered by years says the words everyone is feeling.

We can celebrate, and we should…We have kept – all of us – the fires burning around here. And whatever shall be, that has to be the thing on which we all agree – keep the fires burning – always.

And as the sun goes down, the villagers assemble on top of the moors for a bonfire and in the distance you can see other fires burning as beacons to acknowledge the end of the war. The episode ends with a small brass band playing “I Vow to Thee, My Country” – a patriotic poem that became a popular Armistice hymn.

My dear wife and I need to rewatch the last five minutes of the episode because we were both sobbing so loudly we surely missed some things. I’m talking shoulders shaking crying – my wife even snorted once and she’s not in my league as a crier. I want to cry that way again for my country – tears of pride and unity – not those of rage, disappointment, and fear.

Right before I sat down to write this piece, I watched (nervously) American Mikaela Shiffrin win a gold medal in the Alpine skiing slalom. It was the storybook ending that had eluded her at the Games four years ago. Watching Americans on the podium receive their medals and hearing the “Star-Spangled Banner” has long been one of my favorite parts of the Olympics. No surprise here – I always cry – a joyful cry. Not today. Nope, not even a tear. I guess you could say the band was out of tune.

Don’t get me wrong – I love my country – just not this particular season. But I know that old farmer from Darrowby is right – we still have to keep the fires burning – especially the ones in our hearts – if we’re going to get that anthem right again.

Meanwhile, next week is the annual Christmas episode on All Creatures. Don’t worry, I’ll be pre-hydrating. And I know whatever happens, Mrs. Hall will make it all better.

**Mrs. Hall makes all creatures feel better.**

Heather be thy name

Heather Cox Richardson.

For millions of us, that name sounds like a call to prayer – and I’m not trying to be blasphemous – not at all. I simply mean that her name feels like a supplication for guidance to those of us who read her social media posts every morning. And give me a break – this January has made the average shitshow look like Oklahoma and I need to write about something remotely fun. Besides, who doesn’t love a cool woman known by all three names. I see you Sarah Jessica Parker.

I’ll confess, I may not floss everyday – don’t tell my dental hygienist – but I read Heather Cox Richardson like it’s my job. Yes, I do Wordle first to jumpstart my brain, then proceed immediately to Facebook (yes, I’m old) to see Richardson’s post. You can also find her on Substack where she emerged as one of the breakout stars of that platform in 2020. She publishes her newsletter Letters from an American daily and she provides a straightforward explanation of the events of the previous day. No grandstanding or hyperbole – just the facts and scholarly analysis, often providing in depth historical context for the day’s chaos. Richardson is all business, but sometimes she uses the word bonkers which delights me.

She’s a bit like a decaf Rachel Maddow without The L Word wardrobe and fashionable eyewear. Simmer down – I love Rachel, too, but watching her percolate in real time can make me even more jittery about current events, and when I read Richardson’s posts or hear her speak, I can almost feel my blood pressure dropping. There’s something quite comforting about her calm, measured delivery and her L.L. Bean fleece – you feel like you’re sitting down to coffee with her.

Richardson, for those who have been living in a FOX hole, is a Harvard educated historian who works as a professor at Boston College. She has authored several books, hosts a podcast, and makes speaking appearances all over the country. She’s like the smartest girl in your hardest class, but she’s so easygoing and accessible, you feel comfortable asking to borrow her notes.

Her presence has never been more critical since Trump’s reelection in 2024 and his all-out assault on democracy. Her posts are never political fast food – she is thoughtful and thorough in her analysis of events. Boy, is she thorough. I know I’ve learned more about the rise of fascism after World War I from her than I ever did in any history class – and I almost always feel a bit smarter after I’ve spent some time with her.

I just worry about her – and I know I’m not alone. Many of us wonder when/if she ever sleeps. She usually posts late at night – way past my bedtime. And during the day, she pops onto social media for live chats about the crisis du jour. Richardson lives in Maine with her lobsterman husband Buddy and sometimes when it has been a particularly horrendous day in the USA, she’ll simply post a photo Buddy has taken somewhere along the beautiful Maine coast. She gets us.

**Sometimes you just need a dose of Maine. Photo credit: Buddy Poland**

I love Maine and I rented a little cottage on the water’s edge there for two weeks last summer. It was something right out of Cabot Cove – just without the murders. The owners of the cottage live nearby, and we had some brief conversation as I would come and go. On my last evening there, Dorothy, one of the owners, texted me to see if she could pop over to tell me a proper goodbye. I was delighted to spend a little time with her in “our” cottage and learn a bit more about her. Our conversation quickly turned to politics and how much we both want to get rid of Sen. Susan “I’m concerned” Collins. Spoiler alert: Her lobster is cooked.

Dorothy and I talked about the state of things and discovered that our fall of democracy survival kits were similar – NPR and the NY Times app to name a few. Then she asked me if I followed Heather Cox Richardson. “Of course,” I replied. Dorothy smiled and said, “Well, you know, she lives down the road about 10 miles.” WHAT????? My reaction was not unlike a group of 12-year-old girls hearing that KPop Demon Hunters were in the house next door.

**Me when I heard I was within stalking distance of Heather Cox Richardson**

I tried to remain nonchalant, but Dorothy could clearly see that I was a hardcore HCR fangirl. She laughed and said that they were friends and that she was as down to earth as could be. This made me happy and I was grateful I did not know Richardson was a neighbor until my last night in Maine. I know myself too well. I would have spent way too much time hanging around the local market – just in case. Nonetheless, I slept a little better that night knowing that Heather Cox Richardson was right down the road preparing her post for the next day.

But if I return to my little cottage this summer – all bets are off. Heather Cox Richardson – you’ve been warned.

Thank you for your service

Last week was rather Dickensian for me. It began by seeing a group of Buddhist monks pass through my city on their Walk for Peace. Hundreds and hundreds of people lined their path in reverence and were lifted by the wake of hope they left behind. It was the best of times – and I did not want that glorious day to end.

And my week ended watching and rewatching videos of an American citizen being shot dead by a gang of ICE agents – one of whom applauded after the victim lay dead on the street in front of a bakery in Minneapolis. It was the worst of times – and it feels as if these horrific days will never end.

You all know by now that Alex Pretti, the man executed by ICE agents on Saturday morning, was an ICU nurse at the Veterans Affairs hospital in Minneapolis. Jesus, irony can sometimes be as bitter cold as a Minnesota winter. Alex Pretti was a helper – by all accounts a kind man who held a deep respect for the veterans he served. In the aftermath of his death, the son of a deceased veteran who Pretti had cared for posted a video of Pretti giving his father a final salute in a hospital corridor as he somberly read aloud from text that began with these lines:

“Today, we remember that freedom is not free. We have to work at it, nurture it, protect it and even sacrifice for it.”

Like any reasonable American, I was appalled that Pretti was killed exercising his First Amendment freedoms, and his connection to veterans made my heart ache even more. The grandfather I was named for was a veteran of both world wars and my father served in the Army. And I worked as a development officer for the Paralyzed Veterans of America (PVA) for eight years. I was responsible for cultivating planned gifts – bequests, trusts and annuities – and would always visit the local Veteran’s hospital whenever I was meeting with donors. These hospitals are deeply attuned to the veteran experience, and you certainly feel a sense of respect for service and love of country when you spend time in one – especially when you see some of the collateral damage left behind by combat.

And I think that’s why I mourned Pretti’s senseless and unnecessary death even more deeply when I learned he cared for veterans. And I’m certain that is why I was utterly consumed with rage when Kristi “ICE Barbie” Noem and other federal agents immediately tried to defame Pretti’s reputation and described him as a domestic terrorist who had taken to the streets to sow carnage. We’ve all seen the videos – deep gratitude to Pink Coat Lady who risked her own safety to record the definitive angle of the murder on her own deadly weapon – an iPhone. Hey Siri – Please save us.

**NO SUCH THING AS THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER – poem by Andrea Gibson**

“The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” is a well-known 1970’s spoken-word/song by Gil Scott-Heron that condemns passive consumerism and argues that real change only happens in the streets – and not by watching TV. I guess the song could be updated to include doom scrolling. As it turns out, the revolution will be live-streamed, and that is what is saving us, and democracy, these days.

Alex Pretti knew this and he was an active participant in what Rachel Maddow eloquently describes as “principled, peaceful, and relentless protest.” And he paid the ultimate price – his one, precious life. And cue the irony again – yesterday, the Trump administration – reacting to the massive public outrage over Pretti’s killing, booted Gregory Bovino – the Nazi Munchkin in charge of immigration operations in Minnesota – and signaled that the number of federal agents in Minneapolis would be reduced. And just this morning, we learned that the chief federal judge in Minnesota has ordered the head of ICE to appear in court on Friday for a hearing on contempt for violating court orders.

**Pretty sure Mary Richards would have been protesting. Rhoda, too.**

Enough? Not even close, but it’s a start and none of it would not have happened without the good and brave people of Minnesota taking their ire over how their neighbors are being treated to the streets – in sub-zero temps mind you. Operation Metro Surge – the ICE mission in Minneapolis – was doomed from the start. For starters, don’t invade a city full of descendants of Vikings in the dead of winter.

I just know that a modest group of Buddhist monks in plain robes and throngs of Minnesotans in puffer coats have given me tangible hope that better days are ahead. But as Alex Pretti knew all too well – we have to work at it.

**Alex Jeffrey Pretti, ICU nurse and patriot, 1989-2026**

**Alex Pretti’s colleagues offered a moment of silence yesterday in a hallway of the VA hospital where he served.**

Bring in ‘da peace, bring in ‘da monks

**The Walk for Peace came to my corner of the world yesterday.**

I saw a small parade of superheroes yesterday. Instead of capes, they wore simple, handmade robes in earthy colors – no flashy costumes. And they were not accompanied by a pounding soundtrack. No, these were the minimalist Avengers but make no mistake – their superpowers are enormous. Yes, I’m talking about the Buddhist monks who are participating in the Walk for Peace – a 120-day, 2,300-mile journey. These monks are walking from Texas to Washington, D.C. – talk about getting your steps in – to promote mindfulness, compassion and peace – something akin to hidden treasure these days.

The monks passed through the Piedmont Triad – where I live – and were greeted like the rock stars they are. 10,000 people gathered at a stadium in High Point, NC to welcome them on a frigid morning. Hundreds of other folks lined the route as they made their way to Greensboro. The turnout to support the monks was amazing and even more remarkable was that none of those thousands of people behaved badly – at least from my vantage point.

My bestie Carla lives in Jamestown and has been following the monks on social media for weeks – they began their journey in Fort Worth, TX on October 26^th. I knew she was planning on seeing them and my dear wife and I decided to join her. It was a great decision because Carla had mapped out the strategy to secure the best viewing point like it was the invasion of Normandy. In her own words, she was “obsessively” following (stalking) their route. She even made a test run earlier in the day to scope out the elementary school where we planned to park and she texted me their progress on the hour. I could almost hear the theme from Mission Impossible in the background.

**The Monk Squad – Andrew, Carla, Arlene, me, and Joy**

We convened at Carla’s house with her husband and mom and waited until it was time to depart. Finally, Captain Carla gave the greenlight, and we dispersed with the efficiency of a SWAT team. We were on a mission – not unlike the monks. I think we all knew that this is what we desperately needed in the midst of the chaos choking our country every day.

There were already hundreds of folks lining the route when we reached the school, but we had no problem parking. My little KIA Soul is the unofficial vehicle of Radical Left Scum and is adorned with bumper stickers that leave no doubt as to my politics. When I got out of my car, I saw a young mother kneeling to zip up her daughter’s coat – they had parked directly behind me. When we passed them, she looked up and smiled at me and said, “I love your bumper stickers.” I returned a big fat smile, patted her on the arm, and told her she was good people. Her husband was wrangling their other child and said, “No, you’re good people.” And that was just a joyous appetizer of things to come.

**Yesterday was a blessing in all manner of ways.**

We staked out our spots on the sidewalk with a bunch of strangers who felt like friends. Everyone was buzzing with excitement and anticipation. A woman near us was tracking the monks on her phone and kept updating us. “They should be here in about 20 minutes,” she called out. Our tribe was downright giddy, and Carla and I shared a spontaneous bear hug. We are both unabashedly emotional (understatement) and we were just so happy to be there. And then the monks passed right by us – more like whizzed – those monks are quick on their feet. I was shocked that we were so close to them – you could have easily touched them – but that is strictly prohibited. One of the monks offered us a short blessing as he passed by. I was so overwhelmed, I can’t recall exactly what he said. What I do remember is the sound – the sacred sound of silence. You could hear a pin drop. The only sound was the rhythmic treading of the monks’ steps on the asphalt. It sounded like prayer to me.

And just like that, they were gone. No one rushed off – I think folks simply wanted to linger in the gentle haze of the peace we had just born witness to. And a word I had not thought of in a long time popped into my head – unity. I felt united with all those people on the sidewalk. It was a bit like staring directly into the sun – it was almost too much to take in and I had to close my eyes for a moment.

**Sometimes peace finds you in a parking lot.**

When we got back to our car, my wife found two little flowers stuck in the door handle of the driver’s side. They looked like the simple flowers that the monks carry. I bet they came from the little family that liked my stickers. They were a bit dilapidated from the cold, but still so bright and cheerful – downright resilient. Folks, sometimes the metaphors write themselves. And that’s how a humble band of monks lifted a weary community on their slight shoulders for a few glorious hours on a cold day in January.

And that is the Marvel Universe I long to dwell in.

May you and all beings be well, happy and at peace.

This is a blessing that the monks repeat often on their journey.

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

A river runs through me

Heather be thy name

Thank you for your service

Bring in ‘da peace, bring in ‘da monks