Liam Connors

Three hundred and fifty paying customers. Sharks, cannibals, foaming at the mouth. Three hundred and fifty neanderthals, one-track-minded ants parading into a three hundred and fifty seat theater. Every three hours, another three hundred and fifty sweat-soaked theater chairs coated in imitation butter. Three hundred and fifty people planting a knife into the heart of man’s greatest artistic expression.

They’re missing the message! There’s a bigger fucking picture!

Three hundred and fifty lunatics come to watch Isaac Moore. They leave complaining that the bathroom line was too long. They say the air in the theater was a bit too chilly. The seat didn’t recline. I swear to God, one of these idiots asked his friend if there was a post-credits scene.

They come because they’ve heard that this is the movie where Isaac Moore killed himself. Some of them didn’t even know who Isaac Moore was before this. The man was an icon. A walking legend. The fact that he’s only got one Oscar is a goddamn travesty. That’s the point though, isn’t it? Nobody cares anymore. Who the hell is Oscar, they ask. Anyway, Isaac Moore, he’s on top of the goddamn stratosphere, and he uses this opportunity to make a statement. Only, nobody listens.

They come bursting through the doors, barreling over each other. Goblins. Some of them don’t even know how to work the ticket app on their phone, that’s how long it’s been since they’ve been to a theater.

They come because they’ve heard that Isaac Moore shot himself in the head. Shot himself right on camera. It wasn’t CGI, or special effects, or even practical effects. They didn’t add the gunshot sound in post. He really did it. And they didn’t cut away. It wasn’t an accident.

Of course, once word got out, nobody could get the story straight. The director, Stiegler, declined interviews. Co-stars wouldn’t talk. They even tried to get one of the grips a live-spot on CNN, but he backed out. That’s why they’re all here. They don’t care about the picture. It’s just morbid curiosity. It’s just porn. Nobody gets it.

He planned the whole thing. He wanted to make a point. In his note, all he wrote was: “Long Live the Cinema.” They even put it in the title card. 

Stiegler knew. Of course he did. The man is meticulous. They say he once did ninety-three reshoots just because he didn’t like the way an actor’s shoes were tied. That is exactly the kind of thing these dopes could never recognize. That is what it’s all about. Of course he knew. Moore had the vision, but Stiegler made it happen. 

The sad thing is, Moore gets to die believing in the dream. Stiegler has to watch it all fall apart. Sure, he might gross more than Avatar, but that is not the point.

You know the worst part of it all? Who goes ahead and buys the distribution rights? Amazon. It’ll be streaming in 60 days.

They pile into the theater. They don’t even know where their seats are located. They expect a blockbuster. They don’t understand film.

It’s a masterpiece. A cinematic triumph, exploring the psyche of a man on the verge of death. Agnes Varda meets Stanley Kubrick. A metaphor. It says something. But they just want to see the man die. 

The man obliges. The man holds a polished Glock 17 in his right hand, his back to the audience. Cowboy shot. Slowly, deliberately, he turns his body around. He raises his eyes to look at the camera, beyond the lens, through the screen. The audience expects a close-up, but they don’t understand. Pull back to full shot. The scene is pure darkness outside of a soft spotlight directly over his head, enough to illuminate his face, to see trickles of sweat slipping down his cheek. The man raises the pistol, stiffly. He places the cool steel directly to his temple. His eyes roll back as he inhales. They open once more. He wants to look at you. He wants you to see. He pulls the trigger.

They expect a louder bang. They expect his head to blow into chunks, his body to be blown halfway off the screen. Blood should have splattered all over the lens. Music should have played in the background, cascaded at the moment just before the bullet left the gun. He should have closed his eyes and shed a single tear. They expect a movie, but this is cinema.

They don’t get it. So they clap. The theater fills with thunderous applause. The camera lingers. They can’t stop clapping. It’s supposed to be ironic! 

Three hundred and fifty goddamn morons are on their phones before they even reach the exit. Isaac Moore is turning in his grave.