Previewing the 58th Chicago International Film Festival
(An Introduction)
September, 2022. It was unseasonably hot and wandering around Douglas Park left me disoriented. A thunderstorm approached as Nine Inch Nails finished their set. It was the day after Riot Fest. I took the Monday off work with the intention of recovering, but also to attend a press breakfast at the Gene Siskel Film Center to preview the upcoming selections for the Chicago International Film Festival. I used to enjoy going to these breakfasts. Me and a coterie of like-minded friends would attend, where we’d bemoan the year’s program while chowing down on stale pastries. Or at least that’s what we told each other. I appreciated the camaraderie. It was nice to see D, M, and S. It felt good to be a part of something, a microscopic subphylum within a larger group.
Despite the perceived prestige of being a member of the Chicago Film Critics Association, it never meant much of anything to me. I paid my dues, they provided perks, we carried on. M would sometimes introduce me to his friends as a member of the CFCA and I would guffaw. The largely white, largely male, largely vapid upper crust of the organization operated without ever interacting with me, left to only email me from time to time about paying dues. I remember submitting an application to be part of the organization and getting approved. I felt nothing. It’s what some people work years toward. Some get rejected. It’s an exclusive club of gatekeepers; which would have meant a lot more if its membership weren’t composed of mediocre writers and personalities. M once reminded me that even if they’re mediocre, it doesn’t mean they’re bad people. That requires active remembering on my behalf.
During my earlier years with the CFCA, I was invited to the Lake Street Screening Room. Among local critics, it has a reputation of being a renowned theater of historical significance. “That’s where Ebert sat,” was a common turn of phrase uttered to newbies who entered. To me, it was weirdly musty, with uncomfortable seats and vantage points that made sitting in the front row the most optimal point of view. There was one seat in the house that was reserved for a preeminent personality in the city, the only quote unquote critic to be referenced in a Drake song. I made the mistake of sitting in “his” spot once. He entered the theater about two minutes before the screening was scheduled to take place, where practically all seats were accounted for. He quickly clocked that I was in his seat and left the room. Sixty seconds later, the marketing executive that hosted the event told me I was sitting in a reserved seat. It wasn’t labeled and none of the other critics in the room bothered to even suggest that it was an accounted for seat. Not wanting to protest, I relinquished the spot and found something else with an exposed spring poking at my left buttock. I don’t remember what movie I saw. I just remember Richard Roeper re-entering as the room went dark. A common thread in my life would seem to be that people opt to avoid the discomfort of a conversation at any cost.
I was mystified to get an invite to preview the Chicago International Film Festival. But I accepted it. I tried to look nice, even if it meant donning unseasonable attire. It was still overbearingly hot. And so I arrived at the Siskel Center and heard chatter emanating from the second floor. The stairs leading up to the box office and theaters never looked more daunting. I retreated to the side, where I tried to sonically pinpoint any familiar voices. They all blended together. The head of the film festival arrived. She was one of those faces I’d seen for well over a decade but never so much as spoke a word to. I went for a walk around the block, observing the city slowly jostle itself awake. I came back, exhaled, and ascended. I checked in with the press table, a triad of underpaid interns who took my name and steered me in the direction of pastries and coffee.
The place was packed, with most critics and marketing reps seated at the tables in the reception area. I felt nervous and out of place. Many faces were recognizable. (do they recognize me?) My heart cartoonishly palpitated through my chest. (i feel like an intruder) I took a pastry and water and stood near a load-bearing wall, away from the crowd, waiting for the event to begin. (just five more minutes) I stood alone, awkwardly leaning, trying to become one with the wall. The apple turnover I picked out had been inhaled and I was halfway through my water. And then I saw Nick Allen. He was my ex-roommate and a film critic. He never attended these events before, so I was surprised to see him. I could go into detail about our falling out but that’s for another time. My immediate instinct was to approach him, clench my fist, and knock his cowardly, empty-headed, ineffectual, mediocre-in-every-conceivable-facet, pasty-white frame to the ground. The last time I saw him, I had returned from a five-day sabbatical in the psych ward. I remember wearing a long-sleeve black tee that concealed my swollen, bandaged wrists. I had made a lengthy walk in the heat from Lakeview to Wicker Park, and I was mulling over how I was going to continue on with my life. Nick was at the apartment with our upstairs neighbor, gathering supplies. The neighbor, apparently, was there for backup. I said nothing as I observed him pack up items into a satchel. No one said a word. They retreated. It’s kind of funny to be seen as the tough one in that scenario. But seeing him again, I just muttered to myself: “tsk, no.” I unclenched my fist, took another water, and descended the steps.
Does this make me look sympathetic? Probably not. All the words you throw out there, they end up coming back at you, tenfold. I know kindness is the virtue, what we all want to strive toward. But so rarely do we discuss how difficult it can be, especially when the ghosts of the past yank you out of orbit, leaving you to trudge through the shattered remains of the memory museum. How do you separate who someone was versus who they are now. I keep going backwards and I keep getting sliced by the shards. Even if they’re mediocre, it doesn’t mean they’re bad people.
It’s tough, worrying if this will all be taken away. Even now, I’ve seen my coverage of the film festival get downgraded, as I received an email about having certain privileges revoked. Again, people opt out of uncomfortable conversation all the time. It made me value face-to-face, voice-to-voice conversations all the more, and made me lament those who remain confined to poking at their smudged LCD screens, lighting up a dark 8 x 8 square foot bedroom with their screen brightness at MAX. Still, it’s a privilege to cover the festival. I always discover something new and exciting here. I can lambast the programming for being bloated and having no identity, for catering to a boomer crowd, or for simply not being as good as its competitors. But it doesn’t really matter. There’s always at least one film that rings cherries here and I’m excited to discover which one it will be. But the community that I was adjacent to is not here for me. I was never part of it to begin with, and I’m certainly not recognized by it now. And that’s ok. All that hate? It’s not keeping anyone warm. It’s just burning everyone up. I’m out of kerosene and sweeping away the ash. Warn the city again, I’m occupying space. I’m watching movies.