Page 24 of Once Broken
The film canisters weighed heavy in Ted Coonfield’s arms as he fumbled with the keys to The Velvet Screen.A month had passed since the arthouse movie theater’s official closure, and the familiar weight of 35mm film reels brought him a comfort that digital files could never replicate.
Ted’s reflection stared back at him from the glass doors—a man in his sixties with thinning gray hair and the slightly stooped posture of someone who had spent decades hunched over projectors in darkened rooms.
The lock finally yielded with a satisfying click.Ted shouldered the door open, balancing the precious canisters in his arms.Inside, the lobby stood frozen in time—popcorn machine unplugged, candy display emptied, ticket booth abandoned.Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that penetrated the space through the glass doors, giving the air a dreamy, suspended quality.
Ted paused, considering whether to lock the door behind him.A wry smile crept across his weathered face as he decided against it.Who would bother breaking into an abandoned arthouse theater?There was nothing left to steal—the owners had already taken everything of value when they closed the place down.All that remained were the massive projectors upstairs, too obsolete for modern theaters to want, too heavy for thieves to bother with.
“Nobody’s coming for you but me, old girl,” he murmured to the empty space, his voice echoing slightly in the silent lobby.
He made his way past the concession stand, through the double doors leading to the main theater.The seats—plush velvet in a deep burgundy that had given the theater its name—sat in orderly rows facing the blank screen.Ted had always thought there was something sacred about an empty theater, like a church awaiting its congregation.In the dimness, he could almost see the ghosts of audiences past, leaning forward in their seats, faces illuminated by the flickering light of stories unfolding before them.
The service stairs to the projection booth creaked under his weight as he climbed, each step a familiar melody to his ears.He’d walked this path thousands of times over the years, carrying the same kind of cylindrical metal containers, feeling the same anticipation of bringing worlds to life through light and celluloid.The difference now was the hollow ache of knowing this was just a temporary resurrection.The Velvet Screen was dead; he was merely performing a séance.
At the top of the stairs, Ted set down the canisters beside the booth door and fished out another key.The projection booth had always been his sanctuary, a place where magic was manufactured through mechanical precision.When he swung open the door, the familiar smell welcomed him—a mixture of metal, oil, and the faint chemical odor of film.
Inside, sat two massive projectors, their lenses pointed toward small windows overlooking the theater below.Ted ran his hand lovingly over the nearer one, wiping away a thin layer of dust.
“Hello, beautiful,” he whispered.“Ready for one more dance?”
A month of unemployment had left him with too much time to brood on the changing world.The International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees union card in his wallet felt like a relic now, about as useful as a membership to a dinosaur appreciation society.He’d watched as theater after theater converted to digital projection, each one offering him the same choice: adapt or leave.But Ted couldn’t—wouldn’t—adapt.Digital projection wasn’t filmmaking; it was data transfer, cold and soulless.There was no art in pressing a button and walking away while a computer did all the work.
Ted began the ritual of loading the first projector.He opened the canister marked “Reel 1” and carefully lifted out the spool of film.Holding it to the light, he examined the first few feet for any damage or deterioration.The film was in excellent condition—stored properly all these years, protected from the enemies of celluloid: heat, humidity, and rough handling.
“See, this is what people don’t understand,” Ted said aloud to the empty room.“This film is almost fifty years old, and it’s still perfectly viewable.Try that with your digital files and hard drives.All it takes is one power surge, one corrupted file, and poof—gone forever.”
He threaded the film through the projector’s intricate path—over and under rollers, through the gate where each frame would momentarily be illuminated, around the sound drum where the optical soundtrack would be read.Every movement was precise.His fingers, though more arthritic now than in his youth, still moved with confidence and grace.
The second reel followed the first, loaded onto the adjacent projector.This was the art that audiences never saw—the seamless transition from one reel to the next, accomplished through timing, skill, and the small cue marks that appeared in the corner of the frame near the end of each reel.The projectionist’s magic was invisible when done right, glaringly obvious when done wrong.
With both projectors loaded and ready, Ted flipped on the lamp of the first one, the xenon bulb blazing to life with an intensity that still made him squint despite years of experience.He adjusted the focus, watching as the image sharpened on the screen below.The familiar opening credits ofDandelion Daysappeared, the title card rendered in a flowing script that evoked the film’s pastoral setting.
Roberta Rimes’ name appeared prominently, and Ted felt a bittersweet pang.This had been her final film, released in 1975, before she retired and returned to Atlanta—the city where she’d begun, coming full circle.
The projector hummed contentedly, the mechanical sound as soothing to Ted as a lullaby.“Perfect,” he murmured, shutting it off after confirming everything was in working order.The screen below returned to blankness, awaiting its late-night audience of one.
He reached for his cell phone—the one concession to modernity he’d embraced without resistance.He hesitated, a flutter of nervousness tickling his stomach.Even after decades in the film industry, the thought of speaking directly to one of America’s most respected film critics gave him pause.Their previous conversations had been brief and professional, yet he couldn’t help feeling like a starstruck novice each time.
“Get a grip, old man,” he chided himself.“She’s just another film lover.”
But that wasn’t entirely true.Crystal Keene wasn’t just any film lover—she was the film lover whose opinions shaped discourse, whose reviews could make or break careers, whose bookPantheon Directorssat dog-eared and coffee-stained on Ted’s bedside table.And tonight, he would be her personal projectionist.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed the call button.The phone rang three times before she answered.
“Crystal Keene speaking.”Her voice carried the crisp authority of someone accustomed to being listened to.
“Ms.Keene, it’s Ted Coonfield from The Velvet Screen.”He winced at the slight tremor in his voice.“I’m just calling to confirm that everything’s set for tonight’s screening.The equipment’s in good working order, and I’ve gotDandelion Daysall loaded up and ready to go.”
“Mr.Coonfield, you’re a godsend.”Crystal’s tone warmed considerably.“After the shock of what happened to poor Veronica, I wasn’t sure I’d get to see any more of Roberta’s films before flying back.The postponement of the entire festival has been such a disappointment.”
“Terrible business, that,” Ted agreed, settling into the projection booth’s worn chair.“I heard about it on the news.Hard to believe someone would do something like that, especially recreating that scene fromThe Night Walker.”
“Ghastly,” Crystal confirmed.“The entire film community is reeling.I’ve been fielding calls from reporters all day, not to mention fans who’ve spotted me around the hotel.That’s why I’m so grateful for this late-night arrangement.Eleven o’clock is the earliest I can slip away unnoticed.”
Ted felt a swell of pride at being entrusted with this clandestine screening.“No trouble at all, Ms.Keene.I’m happy to do it.Not many chances to run these projectors since The Velvet closed down.”
“Your dedication to traditional projection is admirable, Mr.Coonfield.It’s becoming a lost art in this digital age.”There was genuine respect in her voice.“I understand you’ve refused to work with digital projectors?”
“That’s right.”Ted’s voice strengthened with conviction.“Been with IATSE for over forty years, and I intend to finish my career the same way I started it—with real film running through real projectors.What passes for movie projection these days...it’s just glorified television, if you ask me.”
