Photo courtesy of Annie Hamilton.
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Annie Hamilton is a writer and performer from NYC who writes a seasonal diary for Metrograph, recounting her adventures and encounters across the city.
OCTOBER 3 – SHE CAME TO ME
I’ve been getting invited to these film premieres for the first time in my life, and they’re fast becoming my version of a big night out on the town. I’m there to see the film, but really I’m there to party, I’m there to look at the crowd. I dress up in misshapen rags that would not be good for having my picture taken in. I’ve only done one red carpet in my life, anyway, but it’s fun to imagine “what if?” If, when I got off the subway, someone announced, “Here’s Annie Hamilton in rags.” I feel like a good person telling the nice production lady that I’d rather not pose for the cameras. She probably feels relieved.
I was genuinely excited to see She Came to Me, though. I love Rebecca Miller. I had a memorable experience seeing Maggie’s Plan (2015) at (I think?) IFC with a bunch of NYU students. I watched her doc on her playwright father Arthur with my own father over FaceTime during quarantine. I knew I was gonna be entertained.
Metrograph is my favorite place to go to a screening (aside from the Crosby Street Hotel, which has a very private bathroom situation) because I feel at home there. No one makes me feel particularly at home-I always think an usher will be nice to me because I write this column, but that doesn’t happen. It’s nice to be an unacknowledged regular. And besides, I used to live on Henry Street, so I feel empowered enough to vape in the lobby. (I swallow the smoke.)
I was impressed by the movie before it even began. Rebecca Miller came out to greet us with enthusiasm. What I’ve learned from going to a number of these screenings now is that filmmakers aren’t comfortable performing introductions. It can be painful for us all. She is the only filmmaker I’ve seen come out and exude a genuinely humble excitement. She was warm, she was welcoming, she had nothing to prove. There was an audible exhale from the audience after she said hello.
What came after was a movie that I hadn’t seen before: a modern-day fairytale with no explanation or unnecessary exposition or push to be understood. The performances were strange because they were a bit “I’m missing a chip” (but the off-ness didn’t sacrifice any kind of emotional backbone). I loved it. We were welcomed into a world with familiar rules to our own, but it was not a world that we’d be walking back out to. I think it’s her funniest film; the obscene circumstances of the story were played completely realistically. She pulled it off.
I got a coffee at the bar upstairs after the movie finished; I hung around the party for a little too long, I hoped someone new and exciting would ask me for a cigarette, but eventually I left to go home and watch The Ballad of Jack and Rose (2005).
NOVEMBER 5 – CHEZ NAPOLÉON, 365 WEST 50TH STREET
I’ve been to some spooky (stupid) performances the last couple of months, man. I did some fashion stuff in September. Not much fashion stuff, but some. I went to a couple of “book parties.” I saw all of the buzzy plays. But I don’t want to write about any of ’em. I went to the usual museums; I visited the Neue Galerie when it was under construction and only had a single room with a couple of Klimts to look at. I paid $25 to do that. I even went to the Keith Haring exhibit at The Broad when I visited Los Angeles. I went to a museum in Los Angeles. I didn’t like most of the work I saw this fall; I liked the outfits more than the work.
I think of myself as an easy laugh, as a happy audience member. I’m not. I think it’s because I’ve started writing myself. Or maybe I haven’t had enough sugar. I feel like my blood pressure can contribute to my jealousy levels. I’ve been debilitatingly jealous lately.
Instead of all that, I’m going to tell you about this restaurant that my beloved friend and writing partner Isaac told me about I’m going to spill the beans. It’s very special. I can’t tell why I want to flex this one, let the world know, and Isaac’s gonna kill me-maybe it’s just to test out if I actually have any influence.
The restaurant is… “Chez Napoléon.” It’s a little farther from the usual theater-district haunts, but it’s still right around there, on West 50th Street. It’s the closest place to France that this Euro-adjacent city has to offer. Sitting at one of those tables-the place only has around nine or 10 tables I believe?-feels like I’m at a dinner party in a small suburb in the Loire Valley circa 1993. Customers know each other. Tables interrupt each other for gossip. An older couple told me that they got engaged at the table I was sitting at back in 1986. Chez has been operated by the same family since 1982-it is currently run by a beautiful, petite French woman named Elyane and her son, William. (William is a true Goth; his appearance is explained in the FAQ section on the menu-I don’t know why this is notable but it somehow… is). It’s a vacation destination for me. I went for my birthday. I want to go for New Years. I take the subway uptown and suddenly I’m in a totally different movie. It’s just so damn romantic. And it’s delicious. I wouldn’t be recommending it if it wasn’t delicious.
DECEMBER 1 – ALBERT BROOKS: DEFENDING MY LIFE
Rob Reiner’s new documentary on Albert Brooks came out just in time for the holidays. I watched it this past weekend, and I’m relieved that I’ll have it to return to after a potentially (probably) devastating meal with my folks in the next coming weeks. This flick is as close as it gets to a good holiday movie for me. It’s my version of a Christmas story, a regular old It’s a Wonderful Life. It’s gonna get me through the whole winter. I can already tell.
You don’t need to know anything about Albert Brooks to watch it. I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t know anything about Albert Brooks-you’re reading Metrograph’s Journal for crying out loud!-but if you don’t: your attention will be held. I imagine that after watching it, you’ll feel the need to turn on one of his films, like Defending Your Life, or Mother (which has a perfect performance by Debbie Reynolds), or my favorite, Modern Romance.
Beyond a mesmerizing introduction to Albert’s enormous and varying talents, there’s the story of Rob and Al’s friendship, and the story of how Mr. Brooks gained ownership over his own life. Through writing and self-performance (and directing, and stand-up, and character-acting), Mr. Brooks saw the humor behind his life’s greatest tragedies. The story of his father’s death is great. The story of him and Rob as roommates-Rob’s consistent ability to get laid (paired with Albert’s consistent inability to)-is great. Every tale is delicious. There’s a dedicated openness with which both Rob and Al treat the camera. It’s a testament to Rob’s titanic respect for Al, but it’s also beautiful to see Mr. Brooks really wanting to share himself. There is a part of me that believes Mr. Brooks probably wanted to share so openly with us because he wanted to do a good job for Rob, and I’m fine with that. The film is as much about finding your family as it is about living in spite of them.
