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I was such a social butterfly that I couldn’t imagine myself doing anything outside my home alone. Why would I go to the theaters, a restaurant, or a park by myself and not share the experience with at least one other person? I’m sure I thought there was a particular kind of person who did these things alone, might have even passed judgment, but I think, maybe, I pitied them. I felt bad and assumed they didn’t have anyone to eat a meal with or enjoy the latest blockbuster. Or maybe I was afraid I was the person I projected onto these individuals, surrounded by people but going through life alone.

In 2017, I signed up for MoviePass with high hopes, but I was ready to be disappointed. For $9.99 a month, I could watch unlimited movies. It felt too good to be true. How could watching three movies in one day make this company any money?1 But it was too cheap not to try.2

I quickly learned that it was too good to be anything but true. There was a point where the average ticket cost me a dollar and some change because I was going to about six to eight movies a month. I convinced several of my friends to get MoviePass too, so we could go together—at the time, the average ticket price was around $9, and it wasn't easy to convince non-MoviePass holders to go as frequently as I did. We watched what felt like every movie that came out that year.3

My favorite theater, which is now closed, was the Regal UA High Ridge, located near the Hinkle Family Fun Center on Indian School and Tramway.4 For evening showings, I’d walk out to the moonlit parking lot and feel like there was a 77% chance I would be stabbed or mugged. But this theater would show all the indie, less-promoted mainstream movies that I loved, and it was five minutes away from a Waffle House. We would catch a movie and then hop over to Waffle House,5 the people’s film scholar roundtable, where we would talk to our favorite server, break down the movie, and share our film ideas.

Soon, I found myself in a situation where I couldn’t find someone to go to the movies with, and I had to make a decision: Wait for another time when someone was available or go by myself. I loved movies, and I had a magical all-you-can-watch card, so going to the movies by myself became a low-risk activity. I’d deal with my thoughts of myself and the opinions of others that they probably never formed. People don’t wonder about me as much as I think about them thinking about me.

Not only did I start going to the movies by myself, but I also started to love it. It’s challenging for me to make decisions that affect others. What if I pick a seat where they don’t want to sit? What if they are aisle people? Back row? Or, god forbid, people who love sitting in one of the first two rows?? Do I put butter on the popcorn? (always). Going to the movies by myself not only freed me from overthinking and over-stressing decisions, but also allowed me to engage with what I actually want, acknowledging I have wants, too. I could sit where I pleased. I could butter my popcorn. I could take my Birkenstocks off and not worry about being judged or harassed.6 Going to the movies by myself created opportunities for introspection, a level of participation with the film that would be different if I were with people I know,7 and interactions with strangers who don’t feel so strange after communally watching and sharing the same experience.

I usually don’t fall for Instagram ads, but Vacier promised modern and minimal jewelry at an affordable price with a lifetime warranty. I’m a frugal person and not one to be flashy. I wear similar clothes, mostly solid colors—unless I'm given a free shirt during a film gig or some other event; If it’s free, it’s for me—to minimize decisions. Spending money on clothes, shoes, and especially jewelry is not a habit of mine. What’s the opposite of a habit? But I’m also a sucker for a deal, and Vacier had a deal where you could buy three items and get a free leather wallet. I have the back of a jellyfish.

I clip my newly purchased silver chain-link bracelet and necklace, and slide on a silver ring; all are surprisingly nice, modern, and minimal as promised, except for the free wallet. I’ve never used the wallet, but I enjoyed the jewelry so much that I would eventually place another order. I head to the AMC theater. It’s a ten-minute walk at most. The Eudora Estates was one of my favorite places I’ve lived, primarily due to its proximity to a theater. Knives Out: Glass Onion was slated to release on Netflix soon after the theatrical release, but I’m a fan of Rian Johnson. The crew was stacked once again—Janelle Monáe, Daniel Craig, Edward Norton, Dave Bautista, Kate Hudson, Madeline Cline, Hugh Grant, Leslie Odom Jr, and Jessica Henwick, to name a few—so a silver screening of this Murder mystery whodunit was in order.

Mid movie, my phone slid off my lap and down between the seat cushion and the armrest. I don’t use my phone during the movie (often shhh), but I place it on my lap because I don’t want it to slide out of my sweatpants’ pocket and fall between the seat cushion and the armrest into the abyss of what lies beneath those comfy AMC signature recliners. The irony. End credits, and I have my hand down the seemingly never-ending crevasse of D1 when my bracelet gets snagged on some metal. *CLINK* That’s the sound of my modern and minimal chain bracelet snapping off. This is why I can’t have nice things. But they do offer a lifetime warranty.

D1 is the first seat of the row that separates the bottom front rows from the top ones, and right next to the handicap sections. It’s right by the aisle that leads to the exit. “Do you need a light?” I hear from my right side. I turn around and see a young woman, phone in hand, and turning on the flashlight. “Thank you,” I said.

There is that damn phone. I reach a little further, grab this technological extension of myself, and offer another thanks to the Good Samaritan. She gave me one last look and the parting words, “See, now we just solved a mystery.” And with a smile, she turns, and I never see her again.

I wanted a good cry. It had been a while since I had a catharsis cry because of a movie, and I was craving one. Martin McDonough has this ability to write and direct some absurdly dark but comical drama movies. He drives home the both/and of comedy and tragedy. In Bruges, Seven Psychopaths, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, and his latest work of art, Banshees of Inisherin, just hit the big screen. And it was starring Colin Farrell, Brendan Gleeson—who both CRUSHED in In Bruges–Kerry Condon, and Barry Keoghan. An incredible Irish line-up, only missing Cillian Murphy, Saoirse Ronan, and Michael Fassbender. Sold and sat.

It’s a movie about two lifelong friends living in a small town, on the Island of Ireland, during the Irish Civil War. They do their jobs, get off early in the afternoon, and meet at the pub for a pint. Every day. This was their routine, and they enjoyed it. And one day, one of them (Gleason) decides he doesn’t want to be friends with Colin anymore—no big reason or real justification for it other than it was time to move on. Colin is crushed. He’s devastated by the blindsided conversation that ends their friendship.

I sat there, immediately putting myself in their situation. The faces of my best friends, the ones who’ve known me the longest and the deepest, run through my mind, like one of those viewfinder toys with those picture wheels in them.

Pull down the lever.

Click.

Face.

Another pull.

Click.

Face.

Pull.

Click.

Face.

Pull Click Face, Pull Click Face, Pull Click Face, Pull Click Face.

What if one of them wakes up tomorrow and invites me for a drink? Or ask to FaceTime for a coffee and chat. Then proceeds to say, Hey, lifelong friend. This friendship we have, yeah, let’s not do this anymore. I thought about Colin’s broken-hearted face, and how mine would look. Maybe similar, but less handsome. But with the same deep, sad, and sorrowful eyes. I do have those on lock.

The end credits and tears rolled down, and I sat there. Watching the names and roles move up and off the silver screen. All the people who put in all that hard work to make this movie possible. Gosh, what a heavy and just depressing movie. A few years later, I would sit at a coffee shop across from someone I’d imagine would be grabbing drinks with me, old as shit, and still bullshitting about life, and be told I don’t want to be friends with you anymore.

I received a text from my hair twin, Sarah:8

My hair was still long at the time,9 and I’d been toying with the idea of cutting it. Sarah knew this, and, like most people, including Sarah, she appreciated my long hair; she’s a supportive friend, which is why she kept an eye on a potential new look for me if I was ever to follow through with chopping the curls. Every person I met after 2016ish only knew me with man-bun-length hair. Short hair Josh was unimaginable until Bad Bunny hit the big screen for Bullet Train. I needed to find out what Sarah meant by “the wolf” era.

It turned out that this movie was Josh's catnip. A stellar cast portraying an eclectic group of characters who were all electrifying. Except maybe Joey King. I wasn’t buying the young child, psycho, I’m a mastermind villain with a master plan, and now everyone is my puppet. No offense, Joey. It wasn’t your fault; it was the writer’s. Or maybe it was your fault and you didn’t puppeteer well enough for me to be sold, but that’s okay! I have my own flubs, too. I digress.

The movie reminded me old Guy Ritchie, my favorite Guy Ritchie. Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (1998) and Snatch (2000) kind of character building and storytelling. Where the characters have odd names—like Lemon and Tangerine—and have schticks—like carrying Thomas the Train stickers and talking about them throughout the movie to eventually be used as a plot device. Multiple storylines with intentions and obstacles for every character, interweaving for the duration of the runtime to come together in a beautiful hub10 at the end.

A funny bit in the movie is that Lemon and Tangerine are brothers, which might be hard to believe at first.

I was reminded of myself and my brother by these characters. No, neither of us is black. Neither of us is white, either. We’re Mexican. But I am significantly lighter than everyone in my family, and my brother is significantly browner than I am. In high school, we would often have friends over, like dozens at a time. There were always people coming in and out, weekdays or weekends, it didn’t matter. One day, a friend of ours said it was really cool that Desi’s family let me live in their home. He assumed I lived there as a friend, because the idea of me being family never crossed his mind. I was too light to be related by blood.

Nonetheless, my brother and I are actual brothers and were always together in high school. He is only sixteen months older than me, but he’s still my big brother. And even when I didn’t realize it, which I often don’t, he looks out for me. And I try to look out for him. I think he keeps things from me because he takes on his big brother role seriously. He wants to set a good example. But when he does let me in, I look up to him even more than I already do.

Lemon and Tangerine are brothers, too, but adopted brothers. The movie reveals this later on, which turns the funny bit into a sentimental one for me. They bicker and fight with each other as much as they protect and fight for each other. I fully did not expect to shed tears in this one, but sure enough, there I was, at AMC 9+CO 10, crying because of this brother-brother relationship.

By the way, this is Bad Bunny as “Wolf” and he looked cool as hell in this movie. He’s one of the characters with a wild backstory that is slowly revealed and woven into the overarching plot. It’s funny that Sarah texted me saying I could potentially pull this look off, considering I attended the University of New Mexico: home of the Lobos. Recently, I decided to get my first haircut by a professional since 2007. I used Bad Bunny’s photos as a reference.

I wonder if movies reflect, distort, or imitate life; perhaps they prepare me for it, or help me handle and navigate it. Honestly, it’s probably all of the above and more. The act of going to the movies itself has an impact on life in unforgettable ways, even the small, casual interactions with others that leave an impression on my malleable memory. I see, hear, and feel myself on the screen—in the characters, in the music, in the performances, in the stories—in ways that only 24 frames per second can sift through the moments of my lived experiences, pulling out meaning, curiosity, and mystery.

Moviegoing has become ritualistic. Choosing a seat before the altar of the silver screen and opening myself up to participating in the art of film that will peer into my soul; the projector illuminating worlds unknown or ones I push beneath the surface with conscious and subconscious meet. When I go by myself, it becomes 127 minutes of pure honesty; cinema as a cathedral with auditoriums of liminality that shift and shape my orientation in this world. It’s in the crushing of perspectives and emotions, where my lived experiences ooze out to be stitched into something new, where I meet the divine embedded in storytelling and find the sublime and beauty of life.

Going to the movies by myself has become an experience I want to share with myself. It’s carved out, defining differences between going through life alone and being lonely. In the great wisdom of the beautiful bell hooks, “Knowing how to be solitary is central to the art of loving. When we can be alone, we can be with others without using them as a means of escape.”11 Movies aren’t an escape for me; they keep me from escaping harsh truths and realities, and push me towards the art of loving.

I’m always questioning if I’m doing the right thing; if I am becoming the person I need to be. If I don’t know what I’m doing—if other people don’t know what I’m doing—will anybody be proud of me? Is who I am even worthy of someone else's pride?

It’s just over three years since Dune (2021) was released. I knew the smallest amount about the Dune world prior to the movie. I knew it was a book; I knew there was a movie adaptation from the 80s, and I had read about people who believe George Lucas stole/borrowed/what-have-you from Dune for his own sci-fi project. I had not read the book, watched the movie, nor am I the biggest Star Wars fan. But movies have always played a role in my self-understanding; making meaning of the world, making meaning of my life. I was captivated by Dune, drawn in entirely by the trailer, and I felt like I had to see this one.

October 2021 was my last month living in the San Pablo house, a place I called home for the past year and some change alongside three other guys, in Albuquerque. We had been on a month-to-month lease over the past year, and in September I decided I would be out by November 1st. I didn't really have a plan, and to be honest, I didn't really have a reason to leave. In fact, things were great. I lived with some of the best people around, rent was super affordable, and I worked for myself. I wasn’t making a ton of money, but I didn’t need to. I had a roof over my head, food in the fridge, and a solid community. Why leave?

I had an urge, something within that said I needed a change. I needed to leave. And if I was being fully transparent with myself, it was a feeling I was wrestling with since March 2019. But I didn’t listen. I didn’t want to completely acknowledge this feeling’s existence because then I would have to do something about it. I would rather feel about life, think about what I feel, and then feel about what I think about what I feel. Despite what it may look from the outside looking in, intentional action was never my strong suit. Leaving a comfortable situation for an unknown outcome would have to be intentional.

Dune came out Friday October 22nd, 2021, nine days before my last one in the San Pablo house. Movie theaters, along with many other social gathering places, had been closed for a while because of the pandemic. The movie industry was trying to figure out how to proceed with theater releases. Some decided that select movies would be released in theaters while simultaneously releasing them on streaming platforms. Dune was one of them.

I was working from home when I heard what sounded like the trailer I had been watching on a loop for months. Our living room had a sweet projector set up; a massive white wall in front of a slew of non-matching couches and one futon for us to indulge in cinematic home-theater experiences. Sometimes, whatever was being watched would leak out into the hallways, squeeze through the cracks between our doors, and into our ears against our will. I heard some dialogue. I heard some action. But what struck me was the score.

A roommate was watching Dune.

Though I could have joined him, I wanted to watch it in theaters—on a massive silver-screen with impressive surround sound, and sticky floors from spilled soda. The scent of buttered popcorn filling the auditorium and the little whispers “I want to see that” after each preview that piques one’s interest. And here I was unintentionally listening to a long-awaited movie.

Fucking HBO MAX.1

*Command S*2

*Command Q*3

Command the roommate to pause the movie so I don’t see or hear anymore, and head on to the closest Regal theater.4

Two things stood out immediately about this movie. The first was the scale. It was a massive movie. It showed us not just a world but an entire universe. The cinematography of the expansive landscapes and the differing planets capturing how vast this universe was physically, while the dialogue and intimate interactions between characters captured how extensive it was socially and politically. The movie immediately throws you into stories of peoples’ histories, war, survival, oppression, inviting our emotions to participate in the battle of liberation.

Then, we are introduced to the well-respected Atreides family who live and rule the planet Caladan, centering on the son, Paul Atreides. Though the sci-fi world-building contains other-worldly languages, powers, and planets, the second thing I noticed was how oddly relatable it all was.

Sixteen minutes into the movie, there is a conversation between Paul and his father, and planetary governor5, Leto Atreides that I have returned to over and over, especially when I feel I have lost my way.

The scene goes like this:

EXT. CALADAN’S CLIFFTOPS - DUCAL CEMETERY - DAY

PAUL
What if I’m not?

LETO
Not what?

PAUL
The future of House Atreides.

Leto takes a deep breath. He needs to change the tone of this conversation. He raises his hand, his SIGNET RING glinting.

LETO
I told my father I didn’t want this either.

Paul is surprised by this revelation.

LETO (CONT'D)
I wanted to be a pilot.

PAUL
(astonished)
You never told me that.

LETO
My father said, A good man doesn’t seek to lead. He’s called to it, and he answers.

When I was a kid, I didn’t want to be a pilot like Leto, but I did want to be something that I currently am not.

I wanted to be a lawyer. I’m not entirely sure where this ambition came from. Maybe someone told me how much money lawyers made. Maybe it was more reasonable than being a professional athlete. I thought you had to have an alliterative name like Mark McGuire or Barry Bonds or Sammy Sosa to be a professional baseball player. Or at least have a cool name. Like Mike Piazza. Josh Perez wasn’t a cool name like Mike Piazza.

Or maybe it was because I liked to argue and make a case for my reasonings. My parents tell me stories of a young Josh taking them to court within our home, demanding sound reasons as to why I could not call them Danny and Veronica instead of Mom and Dad. Because after all, those were their names. 

I’m now thirty-three and I’m not a lawyer or a professional athlete. At some point, I decided to go in different directions from becoming either.6 Unlike Paul, I didn’t have royal shoes destined to be filled by me. But, like Paul, I did feel the pressure wanting to do the right things; doubting and fearing I could be the future anything for my family.

I also related to Leto. What if I gave up something I have always wanted to do for something I felt I had to?

The scene had me thinking: what if I’ve been called to do something but didn’t say yes? Or that I didn’t answer at all; my destiny passing by, floating away into purgatory because I was too afraid to decide out of fear of making the wrong decision. I worked for a long time in an environment that used the language of “calling,” and I believed in it. So when I quit, I felt I was ripped apart. My identity shattered and the solid path I was on crumbled beneath me. Who was I? If I didn’t know, how could anyone else?

Thankfully, the scene between Paul and his father didn’t leave me, or his son, here. The scene continued like this:

 LETO
My father said, A good man doesn’t seek to lead. He’s called to it, and he answers.
(gently)
If your answer is no, you’ll still be the only thing I’ve ever needed you to be -- my son.

I’ve been lucky enough to be raised by my dad. I’ve always had a father. Despite having our own ups and downs, our own relational struggles, I never had to do anything to be his son. I just was and always have been.

When this scene ended, I found myself in tears. I needed to hear these words. I wanted to hear them from my dad, from a father figure, from the God I wanted to believe in, from any person in my life. In that moment, nine days before leaving Albuquerque with little to no plan, I needed to know existing was enough. I needed to know that no matter what I decided in life, no matter what I found myself doing, I would still be the only thing people need me to be: me.  

I had been working for myself the past year, while also working different jobs. My parents would joke (but not joke) that they didn’t know what I did for money. They didn’t know exactly what I did. Partially because I can be bad at communicating but also because I did a whole lot of different things in media that didn’t boil down to one singularity like being a lawyer, a pilot, or a professional baseball player. There wasn’t a job drawing me to Colorado either. I was going to live with my brother and sister-in-law and their family for who knows how long, doing not exactly sure what.

November 1^st, I moved out. I stored most of my stuff at my parents’ house and on November 5^th, I drove to Colorado. A few days a week, my dad works 16-hour days starting before sunrise. We didn’t get to chat that morning; he had to go into work by the time I woke up and left. He did text me that day though:

He didn’t know what I was doing. I know that because I didn’t know what I was doing. But what’s left to be proud of if you don’t know what someone is doing?

My dad didn’t know I watched Dune fourteen days before he sent this message, and he didn’t know how fucked up I got from a scene in it. Whenever I feel I’m losing my way and I don’t know what and why I’m doing what I’m doing, I bring myself back to this movie, to this scene, to these words; to my dad saying he is proud of me, not because of what I was doing but because of who I am. I remind myself that I am his son and that is what’s left to be proud of. And it’s more than enough.

Everything I need to be, I already am.

Our small one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a small complex on Copper had soft beige carpet. As long as I refrained from wondering what it had collected over the decades, it always felt nice under my bare feet.

I would walk from the shower past my wife to our small closet and look for an outfit. I'm not sure why, but we always dressed up to go to the movies. Maybe it was because we were twenty-somethings and didn't have any other excuse, and our weekly trip to the movie theater was as good an excuse as any.

Once we were dressed, we would give each other a good look up and down, an eventual approving nod, smile, and then out the heavy steel door. The stairs down to the carport were covered in green felt that always reminded me of an old putt-putt place. If we were lucky there weren't any syringes (or their owners) to step over to get to our 1999 green Subaru Forester.

The drive to the movies was the perfect time to debut the new mix CD that I made for her that week. I would insert the disc, turn up the volume loud enough for effect, but not so loud that I couldn't make out "This song is amazing!" that I so badly wanted to hear every time.

The soundtrack for our drive to the theater is sacred. It has been since the very beginning of our relationship. We were in college when we went on our first "date" (the first time we went off campus together). It was a warm, early fall evening and she picked me up in her black 1994 Nissan Pathfinder. Her best friend was in the front and I sat in the back middle seat so I could see them both.

After we exchanged "hi's” and "hello’s”, my then crush blasted the stereo (too loud to hear me say "This song is amazing!") and started playing "Waiting for the End" by Linkin Park. It was the first time I had heard the song and it was forever imprinted as the perfect soundtrack for our first drive to our first movie together.

As soon as we pulled out of the carport, we would stop at the Walgreens on the corner of San Mateo and Central to pick up Haribo Goldbears (for me) and Junior Mints or Rolos (for my wife). Depending on our mood, we would either talk, sing and dance, or drive in silence listening to the music, content.

We would take San Mateo all the way to McCleod, then take the back road to the Cinemark Century Rio 24 off Jefferson. We would occasionally go to other theaters, but Rio 24 was always my favorite. The Rio 24 was everything a movie plex should be. When we pulled into the parking lot and saw the neon lights, massive banners advertising the latest blockbuster, I knew I was at the movies.

The first time I ever went to Rio 24 was also the first and only time I have been to a movie theater with my dad. I was eleven years old and he had just moved to Albuquerque. On my summer visit, he agreed to take me to see Tim Burton's Planet of the Apes on a packed Friday night showing. I remember approaching the box office and crossing the enormous concrete walkway in awe. We didn't have theaters like that in Gallup.

I loved the movie and Michael Clarke Duncan’s character, Attar, reminded me of my dad. Enormous, intimidating, strong and loyal. While we were leaving the auditorium, I asked my dad what he thought. He looked down at me with a smile and said “Super cool.” (which is essentially a 95% on Rotten Tomatoes for my dad’s movie rating system). I asked my dad to go to the movies and he loved it. I felt so much pride you would have thought that I was Tim Burton himself.

Every time I walked that same path to the box office, my wife's hand in mine, I felt a little bit of that same wonder that I did when I was eleven. We didn't buy our tickets online then, so it was always an exciting game to guess if we would be in an auditorium in the left wing, or the right. I always preferred the largest screen to the right, but never minded going all the way to the depths of the left wing to screen twenty-three.

These days, when my friend Josh and I go to the movies, we send screenshots from the AMC app to pick the exact time, screen, and seat that are most ideal. There's no fun in guessing, but we still have our own traditions.

Josh used to live in a huge apartment complex on Eudora right off of Colorado. It was almost exactly halfway between my work office and home. We would pick a showtime that was in the early evening so I could go right after work. I would look forward to it all day–during meetings that dragged, while reading emails from people asking dumb questions, and in the middle of client lunches.

The time we went to see Cocaine Bear, I found a podcast interview with Elizabeth Banks to listen to on my commute because I knew that Josh would have done his homework and I wanted to come prepared. As I left the office and set out to Eudora, I allowed myself to finally get excited.

I park along the street out front and text him that I am outside. He lets me into the building and we catch up on life. Usually about ten minutes before the movie starts we start walking up Eighth Street towards the AMC 9 that we affectionately call the Mothership (which is the best AMC theater in Denver).

As we slowly make our way to the theater, we talk about life, and movies we've watched since we last hung out. We talk about the movie we are about to see and I'm glad I did my homework on the way over. Not because Josh would care, he's just happy to be here with me walking to a movie, but because it allows us to have this shared moment.

Josh always prints his ticket. I made fun of him the first time I saw him bypass the attendant scanning digital tickets on iPhones so he could go to an empty kiosk "because that's the only way you can get your ticket printed." As I laugh at him, he explains that he's done it since he was a kid. I've happily joined him in his tradition since.

There are a few ticket stubs I wish I still had. Like that uncharacteristically hot afternoon in September when I was ten. My grandma decided on a whim that we should go see a movie. They were playing Remember The Titans at the Twin Cinemas in the mall. Good enough for us.

We endured the blazing heat radiating off the blacktop parking lot and the glare bouncing off the windshields as we walked toward the west entrance. As soon as we got through the doors we let the air conditioning blow relief over our faces. The box office was just across the walkway from the Orange Julius in the food court. We grabbed the tickets (that I wish I kept) and went to the screen on the left.

I remember looking at my grandma's smile when Creedence Clearwater Revival needle dropped, and her eyes well with tears when they threw a brick through Coach Boone’s window. She was from the South and I think the beautiful and the horrendous scenes that took place on the screen deeply resonated with her. I'll never forget that spontaneous trip to the movies.

Chandler worked later than us, and usually couldn’t make the showtimes we picked. But as soon as the movie was over, Josh would text him to see if he wanted to meet us for dinner or drinks. If it was drinks, it was always at Bar Car–a dive right across the street from the theater. It's long and narrow, and we always made our way to the very back near the restrooms. If the open lounge seating wasn't occupied, we would take it. It was usually open because I think most people assumed it was a VIP section–or at least as close to a VIP section as a dive bar could get. It isn't roped off, but it is slightly elevated and has the only velvet-cushioned seating in the place. On multiple occasions someone headed to the restroom with blush cheeks and a smile on their face would say "What, are you guys some sort of celebrities?" or "Is this a party? I want to sit here!".

Chandler would grab a drink from the bar and join us in the back. He didn't mind that we spoiled Cocaine Bear–or whatever movie it was that week–and would want to hear all about it. Like the walk from the apartment to the Mothership, we hop from talking about the movie we just saw, other movies, and life. We share honestly from the heart but also look for any opportunity to roast each other with an inside joke.

We are always laughing. Hearing Chandler's boisterous laugh that fills up the entire corner, and seeing Josh's head rock back and eyes disappear into a squint is medicine. The release of laughter, the bond we share over a fifteen-dollar movie ticket, and a six-dollar beer and shot is cathartic.

When I look through the bar out the windows and see the night is as dark as it will get, and remember that I work in the morning, we reluctantly accept that it's time to pay our tab and go home. I feel sleep weighing on my eyelids and I do my best not to start another deep conversation that will keep us standing in the parking lot for another thirty minutes.

When we finally get to the apartment on Eudora, I say goodbye to my friends with a hug. I apply just enough pressure so that I won't pop a rib but hopefully, they know how much I appreciate them. I drive home in silence. This is one of the rare times I don't want music or a podcast to fill the dead air. I'm filled to the brim with life and gratitude.

When I was growing up, I had an unnatural disdain for Sundays. It marked the end of the freedom that went by too fast and started the week that would slog by too slow.

The only exception was a period that must have lasted two or three years where my dad decided we didn't need to go to church anymore. With at least a couple more hours of sleep and free time, my stepsister and I needed something to do. One Sunday, while we were sitting at the dining table, she looked up from the Gallup Independent and asked if I wanted to go see Toy Story 2. From then on, more Sundays than not, she would take me to the local five-screen theater to watch something. Whether there was a good movie to see or not, we went. 

When I first met my wife, we would use what little spending money we had to go to the local 24-screen movieplex to watch a movie every Friday night. Whether there was a good movie to see or not, we went. 

When I became a father, going to the movies was one of the first things we stopped doing. We would do our best to watch movies once they hit Redbox, but even then, being a new parent, I would find myself falling asleep on the couch by 8pm. 

It wasn't long before movies started to feel like a luxury or (at worst) like a frivolous waste of time. There were more productive things I could be doing. I didn't have two hours to watch Leo's latest performance in a Scorsese movie. I had a life to live, and a life to take care of. The most irresponsible thing I could do would be to try and escape it through movies. 

In the years following, that feeling became a belief. I bought into the popular narrative that Hollywood was nothing more than a giant profit machine churning out mindless entertainment.

In spite of what I told myself, I still loved movies and felt a deep connection to some of them. I would catch myself sheepishly starting a conversation with my wife or a friend with "I know this is going to sound silly, but I feel like that movie gave me words for a feeling I've had for a long time but couldn't explain." I was embarrassed by the thought of a movie helping me understand life in a deeper way. 

As with so many things in my life, getting older and letting go of nonsense ideas helped me see where I was wrong.  

The more I learned from people far smarter than me about their love for film, and the more I learned from people far smarter than me in my life, I came to realize that movies are not merely for mindless consumption. They are invitations to participate in life. 

In my quest to convince myself that movies are beautiful and integral to life, I have found that movies invite us to participate with life in three ways - watching the film, sharing the film, and processing the film. 

WATCHING
Most people, even professional film critics, judge movies as either being good or bad. If anyone starts a conversation about a movie with "plot holes" and "pacing", you should be skeptical (I was once an over-eager cinema zealot that denounced movies as trash and praised others as masterpieces based on what Rotten Tomatoes said before I even saw the movie). 

The most exciting way I've found to approach watching movies is to see them as an invitation to participate with them as a viewer. This more expansive view allows us to pick out the good in terrible movies, and appreciate the genius in great movies. We don't have to throw the baby out with the bathwater simply because the movie didn’t work for us overall. 

The tools of the filmmaker - story, music, acting, sound design, costume/set design, camera work, etc. are all ways they can invite us to participate with their film. It might not be enjoyable, but that's not a prerequisite to participation. 

When I watch a movie for the first time, I do my best to let myself be taken on a journey. Try as I might, my subconscious is working – seeking order, searching for structure, familiarity, cueing expectations and waiting to see if they are met. My mind is wired to find form. The best filmmakers know this and use it as another tool to draw us into their story. 

I could ramble endlessly on how watching films is an act of participation but for now, here are a few examples. 

Love Lies Bleeding - filmmaker Rose Glass uses sound to make what we are seeing on screen a visceral experience. Extreme close ups of Katy O'Brian's massive muscles paired with unnaturally loud sounds of them flexing and growing cause an uncomfortable experience (both my wife and Josh made reflexive gagging faces every time). But again, it is an invitation to participate in the story – to feel something Rose Glass is telling us is important. In this case, O’Brian’s character growing physically and metaphorically before us.  

Titanic - When Jack (Leonardo DiCaprio) and Rose (Kate Winslet) are at the bow of the ship, he encourages her to climb the rail, close her eyes and stretch out her arms to the side. While this is taking place, Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On" plays in the background. The music invites us to feel the love Jack and Rose are beginning to feel for one another. 

Black Swan - Usually, film editing is supposed to help us make sense of the action/story taking place. But it can also be used to disorient us and help us feel what some of the characters in the story are feeling. Nina (Natelie Portman) slowly slips into a more confused and paranoid state throughout the film and the fast cuts (going from one shot to another quickly), and use of dream sequences keep us guessing what is real and what is fantasy. 

Dune & Dune Pt. 2 - To capture the enormity of the desert on Arrakis, Director Denis Villeneuve and Cinematographer Greg Fraser chose to use anamorphic lenses (think as wide angle as you can get) to take up as much of the screen as possible. This allows us to be immersed in the shots, to make the desert feel huge, and make it believable that the planet itself is a central character. 

Blair Witch Project - The entire movie was filmed on one handheld camera that could have been found at any Walmart in the nineties. This creates the illusion that the entire movie is found footage from students who went missing in the woods of Maryland. Many shots are so shaky and spastic it feels like your kid cousin got ahold of the recorder during a family holiday. If every camera shot looked professionally done, it would have broken the spell and ruined the gimmick (and that’s just not scary). 

SHARING
If you've seen any of the movies I just mentioned, I would wager that you've talked to someone about it at least once. As social creatures, we love to share. Especially when something is particularly good or bad. What comes up at work, around the table, or when you catch up with friends? The movies and shows you've seen recently are always a top contender. 

For some people (who wear the badge "nerd" with honor) we like to talk about movies right after we watch them. In the parking lot of the theater, walking home from the theater, or on the couch as the Netflix "what did you think?" screen glares back at you. 

Hearing my friend's takes and impression of the movie is just as much a part of the viewing experience for me as is the opening scene. Hearing what they loved, hated or what stuck out to them reminds me that we are wild, weird, and wonderful humans. 

When an amazing movie or show finds me, it's like a gift. It is like walking along a path and finding a beautiful ruby or emerald off to the side. It's too special not to share with as many people who are willing to humor me and look. 

Whether a dear friend or total stranger, when I find out that someone has had an experience similar to mine with a movie, and we get wrapped up in "What about the part where the guy finally stops being an idiot and walks back into the door?!" and their response is "RIGHT!?", I feel seen and I feel real. We've both participated in a movie experience and now we are participating in connection and bond. 

PROCESSING
Finally, movies invite us to participate in life by how they affect us personally. How we process the movies we see can help us understand, grow, and learn. 

I grew up surrounded by classic machismo manhood. Guys were strong, always seeking to be the alpha in whatever setting they were in, and they didn't have friends. They had bros and buddies. Their bond was entirely around a violent sport, grown man toys, or womanizing. 

Watching RRR gave me a beautiful new picture of masculinity. The two main male characters, Bheem and Raju, are strong, loyal, vulnerable, emotional, joyful, but most importantly for me, they have a deep love for one another that is not romantic in nature. Seeing it on screen gave me an idea that I've clung to and shed light on a question I've had for most of my adult life. How can I be a good man in today's world? 

I'm under no illusion that there aren't bad movies out there, or that there's no occasion to turn on a movie and turn off your brain. That is the beauty of movies. They can be whatever we want them to be. And if we want them to, they can be a beautiful invitation to be an active participant in our own lives. 

A long time ago in an old Pueblo Revival-style performance arts center, I got a film degree. It's not something I talk about often, but when people find out, the first question they ask is "What's your favorite movie?" 

I've always dreaded that question. When someone asked, "What's your favorite movie?" (especially after they found out I went to film school), I interpreted it as "What is the best movie?". My opinion on the best movie is a direct reflection of what kind of person I am. How cool or uncool I am. My answer would determine whether or not I got into the exclusive "Cool Movie Person Club."1 

I don't think I'm alone in my feelings toward that question. Recently at work, a top executive from our company came into town. We were all gathered in the conference room to eat catered sandwiches and introduce ourselves. The executive asked everyone to share their name, what they did, and their favorite movie. 

By the wide-eyed look I saw on everyone's face, they felt the same dread. 

For years I struggled with what my answer should be. I wanted my answer to all at once make me seem cool, artistic, but approachable. No matter what movie I thought of, nothing felt like I could whole-heartedly say it was my favorite.

There was a time when I stuck with the same answer because it was the best I could come up with (I would tell people it was 28 Days Later, which is one of my favorite films) but it always felt forced. 

When it was my turn to share my favorite movie with coworkers and my boss's boss's boss, I panicked that there was still sandwich in my teeth, but I confidently said, "The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent," and I meant it. 

How did I go from anxious try-hard to confident in my own skin? It wasn't until recently that I realized that I was putting my own meaning on the question. If we take the question at face value, it's "What is your favorite movie?".  This is entirely personal to you, and only you can decide. 

Now that the pressure is off, you get to decide what your favorite movie is. I'm going to use my "Top Four" from my Letterboxd to show different criteria we can use to come up with our favorite movie (or movies). A fun way to help you figure out your answer to a dreaded question.

My absolute favorite film is The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent.2

Here is why. 

I enjoy it… a lot
I love every minute of this movie. It is incredibly fun, rewatchable, quotable, and brings me joy. It's funny as hell, makes me think, every shot is gorgeous, and I cry every time (it's a full watch, as they say). 

Two of my favorite actors
Cage is a figure of my childhood, and Pascal is one of my favorite actors working today. The two of them together are unhinged in the best way. 

Story 
My friends know all too well that my favorite part of movies is the story. This movie is about two men who love, and have deep personal connections with movies. It's about their friendship and how they both make each other better people. For Javi (Pedro Pascal), it's not being afraid to take chances on himself. For Nic (Nicolas Cage), it's understanding that he already has everything he needs to feel whole. 

Personal Context
I saw this movie when it came out in theaters. At the time, I had just moved to Denver, and my wife and kids were still in Florida. It was a low time, and all I did was work and try to find a house. Josh had moved to Denver at the same time. He and I kept each other company and bonded over our mutual love for movies. 

It was a Saturday, and I remember feeling especially lonely and down. Out of the blue, Josh called and asked if I wanted to go see TUWMT. I had nothing better to do, and I’m glad I did. It was one of the best movie-going experiences I've ever had. I saw two grown men trying to figure themselves out, developing a beautiful friendship over their love of films and each other, and I saw Nic Cage grow as a father. As I sat in that theater, I was overwhelmed with how grateful I was for Josh and that I didn't have to wait until my daughter was grown to show her how much I love her. 

It was the perfect movie that met me at the perfect time. 

For all those reasons, I confidently tell people that TUWMT is my favorite movie. 

Here are the other three that can give you a few more ways to come up with your favorite. 

The Goonies - I watched this movie on VHS at my grandmother's house countless times when I was a kid. I loved the characters, comedy, and adventure they got to share. I remember wishing I could be a Goonie. Since then, it's probably the movie I've seen most. The association and nostalgia make it a top movie for me. 

Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse - I don't remember the last time an animated film affected me the way Across the Spider-verse did (Up, maybe?). Visually incredible, the score and needle drops are a bull's eye every time. I really resonated with the story of a young man not feeling like he fits in anywhere but fighting to figure it out. This movie just came out last year, and its spot could change - or not. If a movie has a big impact on you, don't be afraid to consider it among your favorites, there's no rules saying you can't change it later or that brand-new movies can't be your favorite. 

Last of the Mohicans - I was five years old when I first watched Last of the Mohicans with my dad on Pay Per View. There was a lot that was lost on me and boring, but in the last 10 minutes during the final battle scene, I remember being so moved by the score paired with Daniel Day-Lewis running through the woods battling the Huron. It was at that moment that I realized movies can move you, and I wanted to be a part of that. Even though it was only one sequence, I have to credit my love for movies to it. 

There you have it—a few ways to choose your favorite movie. Remember, the most important thing is that there are no rules. Your favorite anything is completely subjective to you, and you don't need to justify your answer to anyone. Using the criteria above helped me feel confident in my own choices, and hopefully, they can do the same for you! 

-NMD