How long have I been in this place? I cannot say. In the darkness, time has lost meaning. The only days I remember are Days of Heaven (Terrence Malick, 1978), the only nights, Nights of Cabiria (Fellini, 1957). My head aches, my ears ring, my thoughts swing between panic and unsolicited opinions about old movies.
Slowly, my memory returns: I was high on the top shelf, rearranging the Criterion Closet from alphabetical to philosophical. As I moved the Paul Schrader films to the “nihilism” section, I heard the door slam. The mound of Robert Altman films beneath my feet shook and then gave way, and I plummeted to the floor.
Now, I find myself trapped beneath an avalanche of ensemble casts and 1970s New Hollywood sensibilities. My head bleeds from the fall. I curse my stupidity. Fool! Why were you up there? I ask. Putting Schrader next to Bresson? Their similarities are superficial at best!


