The Wail in 70mm

Two months after its release, I went to see a matinee of Interstellar by myself. Back row. Dead center. Sober. For the first half, I was fine. All internal systems read normal. Then it hit like a meteor. The scene everyone warned me about. The one where Matthew McConaughey realizes the magnitude of Anne Hathaway’s—pardon my French—royal f**kup. Twenty-three years pissed away on a fool’s errand. As if under the spell of a burning house, I watched a man absorb recording after recording from his son on a very distant Earth. Life’s milestones reduced to digital timestamps: school accolades, finding love, having a son of his own. Then came the news of his father’s passing, and everything began to crack. Just when we’re wondering if the daughter will leave a message, the recording ends. The theater was silent. “Hey, Dad. You son’a bitch.” It’s the daughter. Fully grown. So much time Anne Hathaway ruined. Father and daughter, galaxies apart, connected by thin, undulating frequencies stretching across the universe. Her frustration. His anguish. My undoing. All she wants is to crawl back into the arms of the man who left her. A father’s face crumpling under the weight of lost years, guilt, and isolation. It was too much. The levee broke. In the stillness of the theater, a man let out a wail like a feral critter. Down in front, a group craned their necks. Slapping a hand to my mouth, I sank further into my seat. But it didn’t matter. I had lost kids I never even had.

I spend my free time playing guitar and designing pedalboards.
I’m also an NBA junkie and a supporter of the Charlotte Hornets, for better or worse.