How long have I been in this place? I cannot say. In the darkness, time has lost meaning. The only days I remember are Days of Heaven (Terrence Malick, 1978), the only nights, Nights of Cabiria (Fellini, 1957). My head aches, my ears ring, my thoughts swing between panic and unsolicited opinions about old movies.
Slowly, my memory returns: I was high on the top shelf, rearranging the Criterion Closet from alphabetical to philosophical. As I moved the Paul Schrader films to the “nihilism” section, I heard the door slam. The mound of Robert Altman films beneath my feet shook and then gave way, and I plummeted to the floor.
Now, I find myself trapped beneath an avalanche of ensemble casts and 1970s New Hollywood sensibilities. My head bleeds from the fall. I curse my stupidity. Fool! Why were you up there? I ask. Putting Schrader next to Bresson? Their similarities are superficial at best!
Regret won’t do any good now. I refuse to give up, even though this is exactly how I always thought I’d die. I claw my way out and run to the door. Locked. I scream until my throat is sore, but nobody responds to my thoughts on the new 4K restoration of Vittorio De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves.
I am alone.
I must prepare for a long wait. Awards season has come to a close; it could be months before a movie star passes through the Criterion Closet, looking to boost their cultural credibility. If I’m going to escape, I’ll have to do it myself.
A search through the German expressionism shelves—an extremely zig-zaggy search—presents no way out of this unforgiving prison of iconic movies. I wander the shelves for what feels like an eternity, even to me, and I prefer the director’s cut of Heaven’s Gate.
The heating is turned off, and the temperature plummets to a deadly 61 degrees Fahrenheit. (I’m from the LA office.) I start a fire and cook a copy of The Red Shoes. Unparalleled filmmaking, but as food, the disk provides virtually no nutrition. It is agony to swallow and tastes exactly like plastic. Just to be sure, I try eating three more films. The results are the same, if not more painful.
The next day, a miracle! Underneath a shelf, I discover a half-full promotional First Cow water bottle. I fall to my knees, weep, and thank Kelly Reichardt.
As I drink, something approaches. My blood runs cold. I turn and see Isabella Rossellini. She is wrapped in a floor-length elkskin jacket, crowfeather hat, and a necklace fashioned from fish bones. (These were what she was wearing when she came in.)
Isabella takes me to her shack. She tells me she’s been marooned here since she lost her PR team in a tragic public relations disaster. She cleans my wound with an assortment of expensive Lancôme products and tells me to get some sleep.
A noise wakes me. As I search for its source, I discover Isabella’s black Criterion tote bag. Inside, I find not an eclectic selection of classic films but human bones. I study the skull. It has been bludgeoned, the wound unmistakably from a John Cassavetes box set. I drop the skull, vomit, and make a mental note to add that one to my collection.
“Time for dinner and a movie,” a voice says. I turn and see Isabella, smiling at me, licking her lips. It’s a terrible line, but she sells it. Her mother would be proud. She screams and runs at me, then stops cold and looks down. Blood runs out of her stomach, where I’ve stuck her with a shard from the new Flowers of St. Francis two-disc set. She smiles. “Good choice,” she says and falls to the ground.
Isabella Rossellini is dead. I sob and draft a really good tribute to post later.
I run out of the shack and flee into the darkness. I collapse onto the ground, exhausted, and fall into the bleakest nightmare of my life. It was written by Ingmar Bergman, directed by Lars von Trier, and narrated by Werner Herzog.
I wake to the distant whirring of a propeller. Could it be? I climb to the highest shelf. Yes, it’s the unmistakable sound of a mini-fan cooling off a movie star. Adam Driver films his Criterion Closet video. I cry for help, but they cannot hear me over Driver explaining how “Hollywood would never make The Battle Of Algiers today. Cowards.”
It’s helpless. My cries are no match for his brave and original opinions about a sixty-year-old movie. I watch as the crew packs up their equipment. I panic. I have one last, desperate chance. I run forward and shout:
“SCHRADER IS OVERRATED.”
Adam Driver turns to me. “Do you need help?” he asks. “Because that’s honestly idiotic.”
And the entire room yells at me. As I listen to a bunch of men criticize my taste in film, I know I am back in civilization.