Page 39 of Once Broken
“Should I take a seat?”she called.“Is the film ready?”
The figure raised its hand again—another wave, or perhaps a gesture of confirmation.Crystal couldn’t be sure from this distance, but she took it as an affirmative.
“I’ll be right here in the center,” she announced, making her way down the sloped aisle.
She selected a seat in the middle of the theater—row M, the sweet spot where sound and image would be perfectly balanced.As she settled in, smoothing her slacks and placing her handbag on the adjacent seat, she wondered briefly at Ted’s lack of verbal greeting.Perhaps the acoustics made it difficult for him to hear her from the booth, or maybe he was simply focused on his preparations.
Crystal allowed herself to relax into the seat’s velvet embrace.In her sixty-five years, she had watched countless films in countless theaters, from glamorous Hollywood premieres to crumbling art houses in Eastern Europe.Each space had its own personality, its own relationship with the films it screened.The Velvet Screen, even in its twilight, maintained a dignified character—a venue that took its role as a conduit for art seriously.
The house lights dimmed suddenly, plunging the theater into near darkness.A cone of light burst from the projection booth, striking the screen with the promise of an unfolding.Crystal felt the familiar flutter of excitement that preceded every film, regardless of how many thousands she had viewed in her career.Each new screening represented possibility—the chance to be moved, challenged, transformed.
The screen filled with the rich, slightly faded color palette of 1970s film stock asDandelion Daysbegan to unspool.No stream of studio logos or digital anti-piracy warnings—just the immediate immersion into the film itself, as movies had routinely begun back before corporate branding.
The opening shot panned across a rural landscape, golden fields swaying in summer breeze, before settling on a country road where a solitary car approached in the distance.The musical score swelled, strings and piano weaving a theme of nostalgic longing that had haunted Crystal since she’d first heard it as a young critic.
Within moments, Roberta Rimes appeared on screen, her face filling the frame in close-up—those extraordinary eyes communicating volumes about her character’s hidden depths.Crystal leaned forward slightly, captivated as always by Rimes’ ability to convey complex emotion with the smallest shift in expression.Digital projection might offer technical perfection, but it could never capture the organic warmth of celluloid, the subtle grain that seemed to breathe life into Roberta’s performance.
The scene continued, and Crystal found herself transported by the familiar story—a celebrated novelist returning to her small hometown after decades away, confronting the memories and relationships she’d transformed into fiction.The narrative was simple yet profound, a meditation on the way art both preserves and distorts reality.Roberta’s portrayal of the writer carried the weight of her own experiences—a woman who had seen much, hidden more, and emerged with wisdom that could not fully compensate for her regrets.
WatchingDandelion Daysagain, Crystal thought of her own book,Pantheon Directors, and how she had argued for the film’s director, Anthony Cahill, to be included among cinema’s greatest visionaries despite his limited output.Some critics had dismissed the film as sentimental, but Crystal had recognized its subtle subversion of nostalgia, the way it exposed the selectivity of memory without surrendering to cynicism.
The only element missing from this viewing experience was the communal energy of an audience—the collective breath held during moments of tension, the ripple of laughter at shared humor, the silent communion of strangers united by artistic experience.Yet there was something uniquely intimate about being the sole viewer, as if Roberta Rimes were performing for her alone across the gulf of decades.
Twenty minutes into the film, Crystal settled deeper into her seat, appreciating Ted’s skill at projection.The focus was razor-sharp, the framing precise, the audio balanced perfectly.These were the hallmarks of a professional who understood that his art lay in invisibility—when projection was done right, the audience forgot entirely about the technical aspects of presentation and surrendered completely to the story.
Her thoughts drifted briefly to Ted himself.What would become of him now, with traditional projection becoming increasingly rare?He belonged to a dying breed, artisans whose specialized knowledge was being rendered obsolete by the relentless march of digitization.Crystal had witnessed similar transitions throughout the industry—hand-drawn animation supplanted by computers, carefully staged special effects eclipsed by CGI, celluloid giving way to pixels.Progress, they called it, though sometimes it felt more like erasure.
On screen, Roberta’s character stood at the edge of a lake, watching the sunset paint the water in amber hues.The composition was exquisite—a perfect balance of human figure and natural landscape, each reflecting the emotional state of the other.Crystal made a mental note to mention this sequence in her next column, perhaps as part of a broader piece about the visual grammar of 1970s American cinema.
The peaceful scene was shattered by a sudden stutter in the projection.The image jumped, froze momentarily, then resumed for a second before freezing again.Crystal frowned, pulled from her single-minded focus.
The stuttering continued, each jerk of the film accompanied by an ominous clicking sound from the projection booth.
Then came the dreaded sight that every film lover feared—a small spot in the center of the frame began to bubble and distort.The film had caught in the gate, the intense heat of the projection lamp now burning through the celluloid itself.The spot expanded rapidly, blossoming into an irregular hole that grew larger as flames consumed the trapped frame.
The screen went blindingly white as the burning frame melted completely, leaving only the harsh illumination of the projector’s lamp.Crystal shielded her eyes against the sudden glare, surprised by the intensity of light unfiltered by film.
“Ted?”she called, turning in her seat to look back at the projection booth.“The film’s caught!”
Only silence answered her.The white light continued to pour onto the screen, creating an uncomfortably bright void where Roberta Rimes had been moments before.
Crystal waited, certain that Ted would notice the problem and stop to patch the break.Seconds stretched into a minute, then two.The projector continued to run, its mechanical whir audible in the silent theater.
“Ted?”she called again, louder this time.“Is everything all right up there?”
The silhouette she’d seen earlier was no longer visible in the booth windows.Crystal’s mild annoyance shifted toward concern.Even an amateur projectionist would immediately respond to a burned film—for a professional like Ted to ignore it was unthinkable.
She rose from her seat, gathering her handbag.Something felt wrong.The emptiness of the theater, previously cozy and exclusive, suddenly seemed ominous.The harsh white light from the screen cast everything in an unnatural glow.
“I’m coming up to check on you,” she announced, her voice sounding smaller than she intended.
No response came from the booth.
Crystal made her way up the sloped aisle, her shadow stretching grotesquely ahead of her in the projector’s unfiltered light.At the back of the theater, a small door marked “Staff Only” stood slightly ajar.Beyond it, a narrow staircase led upward, presumably to the projection booth.
She hesitated at the threshold, a vague uneasiness settling over her.In her decades as a critic, she had visited countless projection booths, watched operators thread film through complicated paths.There was no rational reason for her sudden reluctance.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered to herself, pushing through the door.
