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wishing the ending were different. That instead of driving away, Harrison’s character John Book would hit the brakes, put the car in reverse, and turn around. It’s what she would have done. If she ever established bonds that strong, she would never let them break. Not for anything or anyone.
Dylan ran her finger down the list of movies. Maybe they could start with Bound, the 2000 thriller with an ending they wouldn’t have to handicap. No, despite the unquestioned charms of Jennifer Tilly and Gina Gershon, the plot was too violent for Rebecca’s first time out. The bloodshed would probably remind Rebecca of that awful day in Nickel Mines. A day Dylan and everyone she knew would always remember but longed to forget.
Desert Hearts would probably be better. Patricia Charbonneau and Helen Shaver falling in love in 1950s Nevada and looking hot while they did it. Or perhaps Casablanca, followed by To Have and Have Not and The Philadelphia Story. Who could provide a better introduction to the magic of cinema than acting legends like Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, and Bogie and Bacall?
Dylan was a film buff of the highest order. She could name the release date, director, and stars of every noteworthy film since the medium was invented. Instead of the latest teen idols, posters of classic movies covered her walls. To feed her habit, she had a part-time job as an usher in a theater in her Lancaster hometown. Tearing tickets in half wasn’t the most exciting way to earn spending money, but during breaks, she got to sneak up to the projection room and watch movies while she kept her friend Willie company.
Minus the thick black glasses and pierced eyebrow, Wilhelmina “Willie” Sgoda was a dead ringer for Anne Hathaway, the comely star of 2001’s The Princess Diaries and 2006’s The Devil Wears Prada. In addition to working together at the Rialto Cinema, Dylan and Willie were also colleagues on their high school newspaper, where Willie was a photographer and Dylan a columnist.
Several of Dylan’s friends—Willie included—had suggested she should become a filmmaker one day. She didn’t want to make movies. She wanted to talk about them for hours on end. She wanted to write about them. When she went to college the following year—she had already applied to Villanova, Temple, and Penn State, and was trying to decide between them if she was accepted—she planned to major in journalism with an eye on becoming a film critic so she could get paid to see movies instead of the other way around. Carrie Rickey of the Philadelphia Inquirer and Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun Times were her heroes. After she wrote a review, she always took a peek at her favorite critics’ take on the same film in order to grade herself. They had the occasional difference of opinion but, much to her delight, they were usually on the same page.
The weekly column she wrote for The Chronicle only served to whet her appetite. She often found herself writing reviews for films she wasn’t assigned to cover. Besides being good practice, it helped enrich her moviegoing experience. It reminded her to go beneath the surface and examine the movie from every angle. To parse every line for hidden meanings, even the throwaways. Now she would get to share the experience with Rebecca. What could be better than that?
Dylan forced herself to hit the brakes. Rebecca had been controlled her whole life. Told what to say, what to do, what to wear, and what to think. The time had come for her to be allowed to make her own decisions. Dylan would leave it to Rebecca to plan the evening. Whatever Rebecca decided to do was fine with her. All Dylan wanted to do was be close enough to see the look of wonder cross Rebecca’s face as she finally discovered what she had been missing for so long.
Dylan slid her journal into her messenger bag and reached for her car keys. When she picked Rebecca up, she wanted to hold the door open for her and say something
Dylan ran her finger down the list of movies. Maybe they could start with Bound, the 2000 thriller with an ending they wouldn’t have to handicap. No, despite the unquestioned charms of Jennifer Tilly and Gina Gershon, the plot was too violent for Rebecca’s first time out. The bloodshed would probably remind Rebecca of that awful day in Nickel Mines. A day Dylan and everyone she knew would always remember but longed to forget.
Desert Hearts would probably be better. Patricia Charbonneau and Helen Shaver falling in love in 1950s Nevada and looking hot while they did it. Or perhaps Casablanca, followed by To Have and Have Not and The Philadelphia Story. Who could provide a better introduction to the magic of cinema than acting legends like Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, and Bogie and Bacall?
Dylan was a film buff of the highest order. She could name the release date, director, and stars of every noteworthy film since the medium was invented. Instead of the latest teen idols, posters of classic movies covered her walls. To feed her habit, she had a part-time job as an usher in a theater in her Lancaster hometown. Tearing tickets in half wasn’t the most exciting way to earn spending money, but during breaks, she got to sneak up to the projection room and watch movies while she kept her friend Willie company.
Minus the thick black glasses and pierced eyebrow, Wilhelmina “Willie” Sgoda was a dead ringer for Anne Hathaway, the comely star of 2001’s The Princess Diaries and 2006’s The Devil Wears Prada. In addition to working together at the Rialto Cinema, Dylan and Willie were also colleagues on their high school newspaper, where Willie was a photographer and Dylan a columnist.
Several of Dylan’s friends—Willie included—had suggested she should become a filmmaker one day. She didn’t want to make movies. She wanted to talk about them for hours on end. She wanted to write about them. When she went to college the following year—she had already applied to Villanova, Temple, and Penn State, and was trying to decide between them if she was accepted—she planned to major in journalism with an eye on becoming a film critic so she could get paid to see movies instead of the other way around. Carrie Rickey of the Philadelphia Inquirer and Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun Times were her heroes. After she wrote a review, she always took a peek at her favorite critics’ take on the same film in order to grade herself. They had the occasional difference of opinion but, much to her delight, they were usually on the same page.
The weekly column she wrote for The Chronicle only served to whet her appetite. She often found herself writing reviews for films she wasn’t assigned to cover. Besides being good practice, it helped enrich her moviegoing experience. It reminded her to go beneath the surface and examine the movie from every angle. To parse every line for hidden meanings, even the throwaways. Now she would get to share the experience with Rebecca. What could be better than that?
Dylan forced herself to hit the brakes. Rebecca had been controlled her whole life. Told what to say, what to do, what to wear, and what to think. The time had come for her to be allowed to make her own decisions. Dylan would leave it to Rebecca to plan the evening. Whatever Rebecca decided to do was fine with her. All Dylan wanted to do was be close enough to see the look of wonder cross Rebecca’s face as she finally discovered what she had been missing for so long.
Dylan slid her journal into her messenger bag and reached for her car keys. When she picked Rebecca up, she wanted to hold the door open for her and say something
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