RIP Chadwick Boseman

What we know is Chadwick Boseman was a brilliant man, a tremendous actor, and a genuine human being. He played iconic figures of American history, and he created iconic figures that have defined world culture. He quietly battled cancer for four years while working harder than most of us will work in 40. He spent his nearly 43 years on earth not only playing heroes but embodying them. He is dead way too soon.

The news does not hit you right away because it does not make sense. We just saw him this year in Spike Lee’s Vietnam opus, Da 5 Bloods. We will see him again this year when the August Wilson adaptation Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom comes out. He will undoubtedly be wonderful in the film, and it will serve as his final big-screen gift to us. The gift all along, of course, was having him in our lives.

He rose to prominence as Jackie Robinson in 42. Much will be made of his death coming on the day Major League Baseball was celebrating Jackie Robinson Day, one of those cosmic coincidences that feels somehow scripted. It is not and feels to me more sad than poetic. He also took on Thurgood Marshall and James Brown. He brought grace, power, and sensitivity to all of these roles. 

And, there was Black Panther. It is on as I type this. It remains the defining masterpiece of the Marvel era. The cultural capital of the Marvel Cinematic Universe often feels purchased and purchasable. Black Panther feels earned, necessary. The world needed a movie like Black Panther, and it needed a hero like King T’Challa. For it all to work, though, the enterprise needed an actor who could engage, empower, and inspire. That actor was Chadwick Boseman, could only have been Chadwick Boseman.

There have been three or four good Superman performers. As many or more solid Batman actors. Three Spider-men just this century. Often, superheroes feel interchangeable -- that is the purchased cultural capital we were talking about -- but Black Panther is not interchangeable. Chadwick Boseman is not replaceable. Oh, he will be replaced because the gods of profit demand a Black Panther 2, and the millions across the globe who find hope and inspiration in the character to see the story continued.

But Black Panther without Chadwick Boseman will be inherently lesser. Hollywood without Chadwick Boseman is inherently lesser. The world is inherently lesser. Rest in power.

Out brief candle: Farewell to the Landmark 57 West

Every one of these hits harder and harder. I never like to read about a theater I frequented closing down. Hell, I never like to read about a theater closing at all, but it seems to happen more frequently as the months and years pass. Still, something about the Landmark 57 West, a beautiful independent multiplex on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, hurts more than the others.

The first time I visited with my wife, then girlfriend, we were in awe of the place. We had anxiously awaited its opening since the closure of the Landmark Sunshine, 57 odd blocks south and way over on the other side of town. The Sunshine was a wonderful little cinema, but New York rents and neighborhood politics being what they are, it could not last.

“It could not last” was an apt phrase for the 57 West from the beginning. That giant space, with its luxe interiors and copious amenities, that had us so in awe when we arrived was too giant, too luxurious to survive in the most expensive city in the nation. Add to that the fact most New Yorkers were loath to travel that far from the city center to see a movie, and it had disaster written on it from the start.

The first movie we saw there was the Bret Morgen documentary on Jane Goodall, Jane. We bought a giant popcorn, which was delicious, a small soda, and some candy, then settled into the massive leather recliners in the auditorium for an excellent film. After the credits rolled, we sauntered over to the bar at the front of the house for a cocktail and lively discussion about the film. In short, it was a perfect moviegoing experience. But it wasn’t cheap, and it wasn’t crowded. The writing was already on the wall.

Theater owners across the country - both independent and chain - have scrambled over the past decade to find some way to keep people coming to the movies. The reasons why people stay home (the pandemic notwithstanding) have long been clear: Theaters are run down, tickets and concessions are too expensive, fellow moviegoers are talking or on their phones, and for the average person, most movies just are not worth all of that hassle and cost. Most folks are not like my wife and me and presumably you, if you are reading this. For them, the theater experience is not the end all, be all of cinema.

The universally agreed-upon solution seemed to be to make the theater experience a grand time out. No longer would the options at the concession stand be limited to buttery popcorn, a giant soda, and some Bunch-a-Cruch. Professional chefs prepared high-end menus. Theaters started serving beer and cocktails. You bought your ticket and walked into a bar instead of a lobby. Inside the auditorium, more and more, you find plush seats, many that recline, and more distance between you and your fellow patrons. Theater owners wanted to bring us back with the allure of creature comforts. 

It did not work. Why? I like a flatbread pizza and an IPA as much as the next person, but I can get those anywhere. I go to the movies for the buttery popcorn, giant soda, and Bunch-a-Crunch. The recliners are nice, but no one bothered to upgrade the screens, the projectors, or the soundsystem - you know, the things that might actually make the movies better. So we are left with cosmetic fixes to a structural problem.

As enchanting and appealing as a theater like the Landmark 57 West is, it is a luxury in a time when luxury is unaffordable for most. Really, going to the cinema has become a luxury, whether that is a giant AMC or the neighborhood single-screen movie house. The pandemic is only exacerbating a problem that has existed for years, hastening the demise of a cultural institution that was once central to American life. The fact that most Americans will not be terribly sad to see it go only makes the sting that much greater.

About a month before I left New York and moved back west, I attended my last screening at the 57 West: Nadine Labacki’s Cannes prize winner, Capernaum. It was a frigid January morning, and I was to have met a friend for the screening, but a bomb cyclone kept him from coming into the city. I entered the theater and the streets were clear. By the time I left, they were snow-covered in that beautiful way only New York City streets can be. Another perfect day at the movies.

The end of the Landmark 57 West era, brief as it was, is disheartening for the state of the moviegoing industry, certainly. But it feels as much like the end of a personal era for me. It is the end of something that meant a lot, not just a cinema but a state of mind. So, yeah, this one hurts a little more.