Remodeling The Criterion Closet

Hey, Team.

Welcome to the new home of The Parasocial Hour! I’m surprisingly burnt out by transferring and scheduling all my old work over here! Hopefully some pieces that never got their due on Substack will finally get the attention they deserve. I do a lot of research when I write my pieces, believe it or not, so when things just wilt on the vine it’s a bummer. Anyway, enough is enough.

Here’s what’s on the docket:

It’s a beautiful mid-morning sometime in early spring, and after a surprisingly easy walk across the Flatiron neighborhood, I am welcomed into the cramped and evilly lit Criterion Closet. Marlon, a well-meaning but way too intense office assistant sent to make sure I don’t, I don’t know, burn the closet or something, doesn’t flinch at the two massive duffel bags in my arms. Freshly purchased, their price tags flutter under the vent blasting icy circulated air above me. It’s so fucking cold in the Criterion Closet. I’m assured I may take my time, Marlon gestures toward the man setting up the camera. He’s just going to start recording and later it will be edited, there’s no rush. The cameraman had introduced himself as soon as he’d entered the space, it flew out of my mind immediately. This has nothing to do with him and everything to do with my bizarre inability to cling to pertinent information. I can remember Marlon, but that’s because Marlon is Nemo’s dad. Has anyone else seen Lost in America? Is that movie here? Is that movie any good or was I just depressed and seeking comfort in Julie Hagerty’s fluttering anxiety?

Focus. The cameraman is smiling. He points at the lens and Marlon nods. Suddenly, Marlon has vanished. Where the fuck did he go?

“Uh, hi, I’m Scarey Mulligan and they let me into the Criterion Closet.” The cameraman nods and his smile softens. I’m doing a good job, and I just got here! “I was going to say ‘and here’s what’s in my bag,’ but I can’t really remember the introduction for that because I don’t really watch it because I get consumed with a fit of envious rage that they get to just run wild in Amoeba…” the cameraman doesn’t seem to be as enthusiastic. Focus. Be more normal. Be more fun? Folk…sy? Head to the R’s.

Grab Repoman. Show it to the cameraman. Call him Cameron in your mind but not to his face. “This is my mom’s favorite movie. In high school, I think ninth or tenth grade, she decided I was ready and checked a copy out from the library — you can get movies from the library, by the way. Places like this are great,” Cameron nods. He loves this place. “But don’t forget to support your local library. Anyway, I’m taking this and giving it to my mommy.” I say ‘mommy’ in a hammy baby voice that I know will gross my mom out, that’s the point. Cameron smiles. He loves his mom, too! “So, this movie I would say is essential viewing, the story is both straightforward with your suburban punk sinking into the capitalist grind demanded by the city he’s trying to call home, and also has this off-the-wall surrealist way about it. It’s a blatant dystopia but it can’t be totally considered a fully-fledged fictionalization of our world today, at times it feels like verbatim theatre. There’s also, like, I don’t want to spoil this forty year old movie, but there’s even an absurd sci-fi aspect. I can’t confirm but I’m about 80% sure it influenced the Killjoys National Anthem comic. A lot of people say this movie perfectly captured LA, but I have to disagree with that because until a very recent rewatch, I genuinely thought the movie took place in Albuquerque.” do I detect a stifled laugh from Cameron? “Great picture, so thankful my mom showed it to me. I’m taking this and gift wrapping it and it will be my thank you to her for keeping me alive and stuff.”

“Can I just…” Looking for C, looking for C… “There it is. Carnival of Souls.” and on it goes. Cameron placidly records as I carefully select film after film and give a brief reason why I’m the smartest boy in school for selecting it. My picks are eclectic, but not out of character. Duffel bag one is only a fifth filled.

Sweat beads on my lower back as I consider the F’s. How long are people usually in here? How long do I have? I can’t keep up this foreplay I need to just dive in. I pick up duffel bag two, shake it so it’s mouth hangs open and waiting below a shelf that holds a small, hand-sized gap between the dvds (Or, hang on, are these all blu-ray? Oh no, I don’t think my mom has a blu-ray player. The whole point was to get her Repoman and…). Cameron doesn’t react. I jam my hand into the gap and sweep my arm across the shelf, the dvds tumble in a massive wave into duffel bag two. Cameron startles, but stays behind the camera. He doesn’t love this, but it’s technically allowed. I can take as many as I want.¹ I stride to the B’s and repeat the grand scoop, utilizing the gap left by Breathless. I sweep again, no one is topping me. Cameron is silent, Marlon is still MIA.

My heart pounds. I head to the T’s. I know what I’m going to find but I need to keep up the performance. I need to sell this. “Okay, so, I’m looking over here and…” I already know, I already know. “You’ve got…The Tall T… T-A, T-A… hm…” Pause. Look like I’m really looking. I already know. Crane my neck, make a big show of looking. Turn to Cameron.

“Do you guys take requests? Like, can I submit a title for consideration or something?” Cameron doesn’t respond. This is probably more Marlon’s field. But he teleported out of here a good thirty minutes ago. It’s just me and Cameron and the plastic tucked into the waistband of my jeans, suctioning against the sweaty flesh of my back. “Okay, then.” I reach back and retrieve the DVD I snuck in. I quickly wipe the salty damp off the cover and hold it out. I can tell Cameron is focusing the lens. An indecipherable expression flickers across his face as he reads the title emblazoned across the skyward gazes of the film’s cast.

Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby.

Resting the copy on a nearby shelf, I swipe the contents below into duffel bag one. These bags are full enough. I zip them and collect myself, standing in the neutral pose drilled into me by every theater director I’ve known. I hold the DVD with gentle hands, slightly raised to cover my heart.

“So, I checked your stock beforehand, because I wanted to make thoughtful selections. I knew this wouldn’t be there, but I checked anyway, just to be sure. And, um, well, this wasn’t there.” My knees are trembling but my hands are steady. “This is another film my mom checked out from the library to show me and my dad. I’m from West Virginia, originally, so this isn’t exactly representative of my background, it’s North Carolina, but broadly speaking, Southern Appalachia is depicted across media as an inbred cesspool of morons not worthy of success, joy, or even wellness. Which, um, hurts.

“This is, of course, a comedy, and a lot of the humor is based in poking and prodding at stereotypes of blue collar Americans, fast food dinners, a bizarre understanding of the Bible, mismatched misogyny and matriarchal values, poverty and country mouse naivete. However, through the twin clowns of Ricky Bobby and Cal, portrayed by Will Ferrell and John C Riley, respectively, a tale of ambition and the dream of simply achieving a comfortable life is told. Fame corrupts them, money and power and influence poison their relationship and warp their understanding of love and family. They get the big houses, they get the beautiful wife, but they also, like, lose what actually makes the Appalachian life worth living. Family, community, skills passed down from parent to child. No one is perfect in Talladega Nights, Gary Cole’s performance as Reese Bobby, Ricky’s absent father, is shockingly nuanced. He’s this… man of, uh, consumption, he can only live in a world that burns quickly, he cannot fathom something long term. He drinks, he speeds, he flees. He’s a man that doesn’t expect to live long, has convinced himself he’s not supposed to live long, and yet, despite his best efforts to be obliterated into a grease stain on the highway, he’s a grandfather to two boys and has a son that loves him, despite everything.

“There’s an aspect that I think only gets written off as cheap laughs, and some of it is, yeah, pretty cheap. Bush-era quote unquote humor around homosexuality is horrible and deeply unfunny. But that is part of what also makes it a near-perfect snapshot of Bush-era masculinity. Around the time this movie came out, there was a sort of, like, gender panic occurring in the NASCAR world. So, Brian Vickers signed with Garnier Fructis in 2005 and people went nuts. You gotta remember that this was the era of “metrosexual” and men were grappling with the concept that not having shit stains in your underwear doesn’t mean you’re gay, it means you’re not going to give yourself pinkeye after scratching your ass.” To Cameron’s credit, he seems unbothered by my grandstanding. Only the slightest flinch at ‘shit stains,’ I feel my knees locking and bend them slightly. Neutral pose.

“Having the prime antagonist be a genteel homosexual Frenchman, on the surface, is a cheap gag. But this man is a capable villain, he’s a guy with keen business acumen, a hawk-like focus on the story telling involved in spectator sports, and, horror of horrors to the good old boys, is capable of physically overpowering Ricky, snapping his arm with ease. If anything, most of the jokes are about him being French. It was, also, the era of Freedom Fries. Even here you can find sharp commentary about the nationalistic chest-thumping of an immediately post-9/11 United States. This story takes the “Either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists,” bunker mentality and breaks it. We’re all on the same track, we’re all a family in the end.

“Anyway, I brought the director’s cut because the theatrical release doesn’t have all the jokes I like. The kids are my favorite. Also the ghost telling Cal to get out of Ricky’s house. And I think all the fake commercials and PSAs Ricky and Cal do. Um. Okay. I cleared out this whole section so… uh… I’ll set it right here, by the L’s.”

The plastic taps against the empty shelf, the sound echoing lightly. I let myself smile to the camera.

“Thank you, Criterion, I’m so honored you let me in here. I can’t wait to watch all of these, I’ve been lifting weights all month just…” I trail off as I take one last look, my eyes skipping over titles.

Holy shit, they do have Lost In America.

Scarey’s Picks:

Scarey left:

Okay, that’s all for now, Team. Talk soon (threat)!