September
The projector hummed away, a mechanical rhythm drumming a faint beat to the combined rustle of coats and programs around the Ryerson Theatre.
The first out-of-focus frames of Providence came up, and Harry Jackson felt a tightness in his throat.
He sat, in the third row, sandwiched between Gregory Lang to his right and Javier Bardem to his left. Gregory, a producer to the last, sat with his arms crossed and locked eyes on the screen in undivided wonderment like a man taking a considerable inventory.
Bardem reclined in his seat. We like to visualize the leisurely nature of his recline. Not quite casual, his stance still hinted of the same withdrawal from the proceedings faced by, it would seem, every Spaniard's detachment from whatever Harry could recall.
Harry was tapping his fingers against his knee: a modest and unintended percussion that reflexively introduced an of a larger sense of anxiety into the discomfort he felt deep in his chest.
The rest of the theatre was full-up. Critics with press passes pinned to their jackets, festival programmers, Fox executives and people from the industry who hurled studied appearances of indifference, and a dash of die-hard cinephiles clutching notebooks and pencils.
A few rows back, Harry found his mother. Rachel Jackson was unmistakably out of place in the film crowd. She had flown in from London, despite having confided to Harry over the phone, "I don't care for those ghastly film people."
To her left, Lisa sat bolt upright with a notepad perched on her knees as if she was taking dictation for the screening.
The opening credits began.
The first twenty minutes passed with some semblance of a polite silence. There was an occasional cough, the creaking sound of someone folding a program, and the slither of fingering popcorn from the bag.
Then it happened.
Daniel Hayes' weary reporter sat under the stark interrogation of Bardem's character — the unsettlingly calm priest. The crucifix between them seemed to grow heavier with each cut, the camera lingering just a beat too long, pushing discomfort into the frame. Bardem's voice was almost hypnotic, low and steady, the accent curling around each word.
A woman in the front row let out an audible gasp. From somewhere in the center, a man muttered, "Jesus Christ," not quite under his breath.
Harry allowed himself a single, slow exhale. At least that one landed.
A man with a press credential hanging from his neck ambled by, talking more to the room than to Harry. "Interesting composition," he said, already looking to another filmmaker across the room.
Harry didn't feel like taking time to decide whether that was a compliment or an insult.
Across the room, Rachel was doing what Rachel did best--holding court. Harry could hear snips of her voice as he moved closer to the concession stand.
"---my son always had an amazing eye for detail when he was a boy---"
Then she turned to Bardem, her face suddenly turned into something more radiantly genuine, more than Harry bargained for. "Your performance was... disturbingly good," she told him.
Bardem took her hand and kissed it with an old-world formality. "A mother's praise," he said, "carries more weight than a review. Mr. Jackson has told me a lot about you,"
Rachel's smile turned into a more subtle approval. "I assume that means all good things."
Before Harry could linger to hear Bardem's answer, Lisa appeared beside him and said simply, "Come on." She behaved as if he was a child she'd rescued from a playground. She led him over to a small group of journalists waiting for him at the bar. "Before they all start asking Daniel what lens you shot on."
The questions were obligatory — a few questions about the inspiration for the story, a technical question about whether they'd shot the film in chronological order. Harry was polite, which he always is, but he was struck by the fact that no one mentioned themes, subtext, or performance.
Back inside, the second half of the film played to a more engaged audience. Harry felt the rhythm shift. People leaned forward in their seats at the night-time street chase, and audible gasps when the twist about the town's secret society was revealed.
The Q&A afterward drew perhaps half the audience. The rest of the crowd slipped away quietly, coats buttoned already. Nobody called it a masterpiece but nobody called it a failure. In festival terms, that's a kind of win.
Later, in the small greenroom, which doubled as a lounge when not in use, the atmosphere was subdued, but not bitter. Gregory scrolled through his BlackBerry with one finger, the screen's light shining off his glasses, "Fox wants to see the numbers from tomorrow's screening."
Rachel sat in a chair in the corner, opening her compact to check her lipstick. "That scene with the blonde girl and the death...it worked," she said, almost casually and a compliment of sorts in Rachel's world.
Lisa handed Harry printout folded. "The Hollywood Reporter guy stayed until the end. He didn't just leave after an hour. That's good."
Bardem, halfway through lighting a cigarette against the Express No Smoking policy in the room, shrugged philosophically. "In Spain," he said, "the expression is, like children, you love films even when they are ugly."
Harry chuckled faintly, but his gaze rested on the catering table, untouched other than the sandwiches liberally curling at the edges under the too-bright lights. The film was out in the world now, beyond him, beyond the ability to change a frame or cut a line. It would live or die on its own terms.
Rachel snapped her compact shut, stood and smoothed her shawl. "Well," she said, "at least no one threw tomatoes. That's always a good thing."
Harry smiled at her dry humor, the knot in his chest still there. Success or failure, it was now all out of his hands.