One of the things I missed most during the pandemic was
going to the movies. I’m one of those people who will go to see almost anything
on a warm summer evening, and every aspect of a trip to the theater is
exciting: waiting in line for a ticket, deciding on popcorn and soda, that
small thrill when the lights dim and the previews begin. And when it’s a
particularly striking movie, I savor that quiet walk back to the car under the
stars, letting all the feelings rush through you. And midnight movies are something
special. You start the film on one day and end it the next, forcing yourself to
stay up later than usual with other strangers in a dark room. There’s a greater
sense of vagrancy and daring to it, of isolation and solitude. Most everyone
else is asleep, but not you. You’re having an adventure in another realm, maybe
a horrific one, or an epic one, or a romantic one. Time stops, but when you
walk out after the credits, you’re cast into another place, deep into the
night, and more often than not you’re changed for the better.
There’s something particularly magical about a midnight movie and I think the
poems in this issue tap into that feeling. Some of the poems explore drive-ins,
some classic theaters that no longer exist, some reference old films, some new,
but all have that yearning, that sense of rebellion, that craving for
adventure. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I did, and a big thank you
goes out to all who sent work, as well as to Gabriel Ricard, our interview for
this issue. He’s a film critic, a poet, a writer, and an actor, and he’s one of
the more interesting folks I’ve met on Facebook over the years. I think you’ll
enjoy what he has to say.
With that, on with the show. The curtains are parting, the lights are low. I hope you’re all there in the dark with me, and if not, well…we’ll see each other down the road one of these days.
Happy viewing,
James Duncan, Editor
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