It snowed all day on Valentine's Day. I was out and about in it, from a meeting in Soho to another near Columbus Circle.
After the second, I ducked into Lincoln Plaza Cinemas to catch a 2 p.m. showing of Venus, for which Peter O'Toole has been Oscar-nominated.
It was but moments before the show started, and yet the elderly ticket-taker snarled and ordered everyone to stand back in a line/holding area some dozen feet away from him.
I backed away to stand next to a silver-haired couple. The woman turned and asked me, "What did he say? Are supposed to form a line?" referring to the ticket-taker.
"He told us to stand here. A holding pen for a line, from what I can determine."
Not a minute later, he called out for the the next shows. However, he shouted away from where we were standing. What was going on?
The couple next to me looked his way, and he appeared to be waving us over to him - angrily.
He shouted, "Venus! Mafioso! This way!"
I couldn't help it. I laughed as I walked up to him, gave him my ticket, that he vexedly tore in half, returning the stub to me. I shook my head and walked down the carpeted corridor. Mafioso was showing adjacent to Venus.
There were, perhaps, ten people in the theater. And they all looked to be long-time members of AARP. I was, by far, the youngest moviegoer in the house.
Venus is a wonderful film. I agree with the reviewers. Peter O'Toole is amazing after all these years. If Forrest Whitaker was not so dominating in his portrayal of Idi Amin, I'd say the man who embodied Lawrence of Arabia would be a foregone Oscar conclusion.
I had forgotten that Hanif Kureishi wrote the screenplay. I uttered a small "Ha!" when I saw his name on the credit roll, instantly recalling My Beautiful Laundrette and Sammy and Rosie Get Laid, as well as various published pieces in Granta.
As I stood to leave, wrapping my big, red scarf around my neck, re-donning, my slightly wet, black, furry, trooper hat, I heard someone from the back row of the the auditorium. I turned and squinted to from where the voice had emanated.
"How'd it end? I fell asleep. How'd it end?" A retiree was hoisting himself upright in his seat.
A silver-haired woman was standing at the end of the aisle and she looked me, and I at her.
I turned back to the man, and answered, "Much as expected..."
"Well, how'd it end?" He had cut me off before I could complete my sentence.
"He dies."
"Well that was obvious," he snorted. "It took a long time getting there." He sounded angry - at me, like I had something to do with it. "That's why I fell asleep."
"Actually," I said, the storyline was excellent. Hanif Kureishi wrote the screenplay. It was marvelous."
"Enh. It could have been better..."
I had zipped up my parka.
"Well. Everyone is entitled to an opinion," said I.
And then I skedaddled. I sensed this surly snarler wanted to have an extended argument, and he showed no signs of leaving his seat, there in the dark recess.
As for me, I wanted to get back into daylight, gray and snowy still, a song of Corinne Baily Rae's repeating in my mind.
A day later, dining with friends who live up in that Lincoln Center neighborhood, I told then about Venus and Mafioso ("This way!"), and they explained that the daytime shows at Lincoln Plaza Cinemas are filled with ornery senior citizens. They will berate anyone making the slightest peep (I like that), but will make a fuss if they don't like the way someone is sitting in front of them ("Do you have to sit so tall?").
In my mind, however, I was rewinding and hearing Peter O'Toole sonorous voice, "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day..."
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