Dr. Letterboxd or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love The Movies Again

As I’m sure is the case with almost everyone during these past few months, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands. I’ve been attempting to fill that time in productive manners; (contrary to the dozens of articles from various publications preaching about productivity guilt); I simply mentally feel my best when I have a set routine and a goal that I’m working towards, big or small.

I decided that my main goal in quarantine would be to catch up on virtually every movie in existence that I haven’t seen. I began with the fairly obvious choices—There Will Be Blood, Eyes Wide Shut, Taxi Driver, Die Hard, Goodfellas—and decided I would bounce around between the “necessary” things that I had never seen and the “fun” things I had also missed. I live alone and thus was sheltering-in-place alone, and it would be the longest period of solo movie-watching that I had ever embarked on. The majority of my movie-watching experiences happened while I was in relationships, or at friends’ apartments, and I didn’t even consider how different the experience of binge watching alone would be.

 And so, the day after the official stay-at-home order was enacted, I began.

 As someone who adored Magnolia, I had decided months ago to tackle Paul Thomas Andersons’ manageable filmography, and now was the perfect time to start. I began with Hard Eight, his first film, then moved onto There Will Be Blood, The Master, Punch Drunk Love, and finally Inherent Vice. I was filled with astonishment and joy after finishing There Will Be Blood and The Master, filled with slightly less when watching Punch Drunk Love, and by the time I had made it to Inherent Vice, I wasn’t even sure what was happening, in the movie itself and in my overworked brain.

 After about a month and a half, the full exhaustion began to set in. I woke up every day feeling like I had to watch Raging Bull before it left Netflix, or I needed to finishing watching Her (which I stopped halfway through because it was reminding me too much of my most recent relationship). What began as a desire and an exciting journey started to feel like a chore. I was beaten down by the heaviness of almost every critically acclaimed movie on my list. I would finish watching and feel, not cathartic, like you’ve had a good cry and feel ready to move forward, but stuck, as if buried in a bog of bleakness and unable to forget how dark this world can be. This quest grew bigger than me, and I couldn’t hold onto the reigns anymore.

I slowly, almost subconsciously, began watching lighter and lighter films. I’d take a shot of Scorsese and chase it with His Girl Friday. I picked up where I left off and finished the entire Alien series after watching Inside Llewyn Davis. Finally, I found myself watching Pacific Rim and Now You See Me, both lacking the intricate filmmaking techniques of Scorsese and PTA in abundance. But I was surprised and delighted to find that I truly enjoyed watching them. The spectacle! The pure entertainment! Isla Fisher’s costumes! The CGI! I felt better, not worse, after their credits rolled.

When I consciously realized what I was doing while cooking dinner one night, I was a little puzzled. I went back through my Letterboxd diary and began flipping through my notebook. I’ve always been a list-maker; I make lists for almost everything, but in the past few months I created pages on pages of movie lists, from Adam Driver movies that I need to see, to top movies from the 2010s that somehow flew under my radar, to entire directors’ filmographies such as Kubrick, Baumbach, and Scorsese. I had begun highlighting the movies that were easily accessible on streaming services and would draw a satisfying line with my Pilot G-2 0.5 (the superior pen) through them once I had finished. I even made labeled tabs out of small sticky notes so that I could flip to specific lists immediately, and eventually, ran out of space in the notebook.

 I realized I had watched a whopping 94 movies since March 13th, for a total of 132 in 2020 so far. 94? But it seemed like I was just at 70? Some of the things in my diary I had already forgotten I had seen. When did I watch The French Connection? Oh shit, I did watch Glengarry Glen Ross.

I couldn’t believe it. In my quest for completionism, I had completely forgotten why I was watching movies in the first place. Why was I sitting here, forcing myself to swallow my cough medicine when I wasn’t sick?

I foolishly used to believe that the old adage of “everything in moderation” applied to everything except things that you loved. I could drown in movies; I wanted to completely absorb them; I couldn’t get a fix quick enough. All I had wanted to do prior to COVID-19 was exactly what I was doing. I was living the dream! But when the desire transitioned into a need, it stopped being fun. Like realizing you can eat ice cream for breakfast when you move out of your parents’ house for the first time and, after a week of doing so, realize it was more fun in theory.

 I finally was able to see the bigger picture. What if I did watch every movie I had set out to watch in the next few months? What then? What would be left? One of the constant and most joyous experiences in my romantic relationships through the years has been watching movies, and I had been introduced to some of my favorite films of all time from some of those men—The Hunt for Red October, Robocop, Point Break and more. It’s exhilarating to be able to experience a film for the first time with someone whose passion for said film is contagious. And conversely, there’s nothing like witnessing the excitement of someone experiencing your favorite movie for the first time, watching for their reactions at the twists and turns and climaxes, soaking up their wonder. Both feelings are simply unmatched. If I intentionally watch as many movies as I can alone, will there be any of the greats throughout history left for someone to show me?

 I fell into the trap of forgetting the reason why I love movies and going to see them in theaters to begin with: the communal experience. It’s the ability to be able to have a shared, almost spiritual experience of the power of filmmaking with people, to hear their reactions, feel their electricity. When you’re in a movie theater or with someone you truly care for, the outside world falls away and the only thing that matters for 90 to 160 minutes is the screen in front of you and the people next to you. There is nothing else.

If I’ve seen everything there is, I’ll have none of that fresh, unbridled excitement left to give. I’m watching so many films in the opposite way that many of them are supposed to be experienced—alone in my living room that is full of distractions on a 40-inch TV screen.

So, I think I’ll be slowing down on the watching for a little while and save some of the classics and their accompanying magic. I should really watch The Sopranos anyway.