Standing in line with other middle-aged people, I heard talk about all the research that went into the production of the movie to try to make it as accurate as possible and about the tours the director took of the concentration camps and the team of scholars he put together. There was a tone of reverence.
Finally, the nervous boy let everyone in. He reminded all of us that we needed to hang on to our ticket stubs because the show was sold out and there were a ton of people who wanted to see it.
Forewarned, we filed into the theater. The lights, according to my wife, were low, a sort of amber color. The place was already crowded, so we had to make our way up to the middle of the theater. I stumbled on some steps and reached out for a banister. At first I hit it with my forearm, then rammed my shin into the step. Sue turned around. “Are you okay?” she asked, even though this kind of thing happens all the time. I said I was fine. I sensed that people saw this and took note.
We usually try to sit somewhere in the back so we do not disturb other people. During a movie, Sue will lean into me, her hands cupped against my ear and say, “The man is wearing a black suit, like out of the forties,” or, “Okay, she’s wearing a red dress,” or, “He’s got a gun, you can’t really see it, but I bet he’s going to use it.” One might think that my wife’s having to color in the movie would be a burden to her. But I think she secretly likes it, and I sort of like it, too.
On this occasion, as on many, Sue took my hand and led me into the row. Legs were pulled to the side, and some men stood to let us by. We found two seats together, the crowd surrounding us like a wool blanket.
The movie began. There was a dedication: to all the people who died in the Holocaust. Everyone was rapt. You could hear the cells growing on people’s fingernails. One must revere the Holocaust, but since we are so far from it these days, the closest thing we can revere is a movie about it.
The first part of the movie was noisy, a lot of black-and-white shots of concentration camps and rustling around and horrified prisoners. There was dialogue in German. My wife began reading the subtitles for me. People around us started growing restless, shifting in their seats. Perhaps they were wondering how we could be so insensitive during a movie like this.
The space about me still felt very thick and warm. We were witnessing history. But “witness” in my case was qualified. Sue kept translating for me. She is tough. She has been in the trenches with me and does not care at all what someone might think of her or me. She was well aware that people were irked by her whispering, but she had no intention of stopping.
Known for his use of contrast between light and dark, Spielberg chose to do this movie in black and white. He had, in the first part of the film, created some compositions that my wife felt were important to mention at the moment. Or perhaps mention because she is irreverent. And so the more restless people became, the more she was determined to share miscellaneous details about the film’s composition.
There was a particularly poignant scene, one involving actual gas chambers, and she described the entire terrible moment to me. The people in the theater were dead quiet, unnaturally so. Movies can do this to a crowd; it is the strangest thing.
“It’s very interesting,” my wife said into my ear. “Really, it’s very interesting. Hold on, hold on—they’re about to turn on, hold on, wait, yes, I think, okay, they’re turning on the gas. They think it’s showers.” The scene was horrifying, and then it was over. That’s when the trouble began.
A man in front of us turned around. “Listen,” he said, “I’m sorry, but this is too much.” His voice was indignant, filled with conviction. We were staining his movie experience, one of the most important movie experiences of his life. We were disrespecting the audience, the filmmaker, everyone affiliated with the film, not to mention, of course, all the human beings who suffered in the real event being depicted on screen. “Can you please shut up?” he said. My wife began her rejoinder, but he shook his head. “Just shut up,” he hissed, and turned back.
My wife and I turned toward each other. I could feel the heat from her face; she was about as angry as I have ever known her to be. I am calm-headed because I must be. We just did not know what to say, so we said nothing. People all around were looking at us, affirming what the man had just said. We were baking. On the screen, Jews were being gassed, but that was no longer of paramount importance to Sue and me, or maybe even to the people around us. I thought, it’s just a movie. It’s not the real thing. “I can’t see, you guys,” I wanted to say. But I didn’t.
I wish there was an area in theaters where blind people could sit in comfort and have their companions tell them the story. But I don’t know of any such theater.
I could not fully grasp that this man told us to shut up. And I could not believe that everyone had gone along with it. After all, this was just a movie, a for-profit endeavor that was going to enrich some people (the actors
