Does anyone else feel as though whenever they do anything non-pandemic related, such as unlock the car, or let the dog out to the yard, that they are seven minutes into a disaster movie? There is no non-diegetic music. We only see the characters in a cut frame. A hand. An arm. We see them grasp the door handle. But it’s not a comfortable wide shot. This is normality with unease. In standard definition.
And, does anyone else feel the surreal sense that you are a character in someone else’s narrative? For the next ninety-one minutes, you will go on a life-changing journey. For the next ninety-one minutes, you will see all of their strengths and weaknesses exposed through a minimalistic dialogue. There will be a moment of true connection in the backroom of an abandoned shop, or in a cabin in the woods.
Then, your character meets someone that changes the course of their journey and teaches them about their lives. But together you face bigger challenges. The sound-editing intensifies and the handheld camera never leaves you and it holds you tight as you run from the hidden enemy that President Trump was talking about in the news report at 5 minutes 11 seconds. Time stops. The pace changes. The danger is in remission.
Ninty-one minutes will fly by in the hands of Danny Boyle or David Fincher. Screentime of a lifetime with popcorn and Netflix reruns of your life for generations to come. The depth and clarity of your soul will be revealed through symbolic acts played out in naturalistic fashion as the events of the day encircle your life.
Or, then again, maybe I will just be at home for a prolonged period of time with nowhere to go. I’ll get restless. But I’ll catch up on sleep?