Der Vorleser

A few weeks ago I went to a small Brooklyn theater to see The Reader. I opted for a 7:00 p.m. show with the belief that most young couples on a date would go to the later viewing. What I didn't bargain for was that 7:00 p.m. show was for the AARP crowd. Firstly, it smelled vaguely of camphor and death, which lends itself to a film taking place around WWII (sehr authentico). Secondly, have you ever noticed how loud old people chew? It was like surround sound in my neighbors mouth. I don't even think he was eating popcorn. It was probably a bag of marshmallows, but somehow he managed to turn up the volume.

What struck me most was that at the pinnacle moment in the film when young love turned old was about to be revealed, just at the point when my eyes were brimming with saline, I realized that I felt like I was surrounded by people who lived through WWII. That was why they didn't get upset and teary eyed, because they have been through so much worse. There I was reveling in the tragedy and lost love in a roomful of strangers. Compounding that was the thought that nobody would ever love me that much, which set me off to cry a bit more, borderline sobbing. Yet, when I looked up, those around me looked almost bored. I dare say I saw a pair of rheumy eyes roll.

Walking out of the film I felt something I haven't felt in Brooklyn in a very long time: young. It was nice and refreshing, and it gave me a bit of hope. Until I run into a pack of 20-somethings hoggin' all the bar space, that is.