Sunday, February 13, 2011

Movie magic.

I think I'll start a posting series on NYC's hidden treasures. I suppose technically we were in Brooklyn, but NYC imposes their locality taxes on the boroughs, so I'm counting it.

Last night, feeling very SATC and tired of being apartment-bound, I decided to take Sir on a date night to the reRun theatre, on Front and Jay in Dumbo. I bought tickets for two to see Lovers of Hate, a SXSW/Sundance-approved indie on special release for Valentine's day weekend, and we ventured out the harrowing 1.5 blocks to reBar.

Dark and cavernous ReBar is a one of my favorite establishments here in Dumbo, so when they opened reRun, an indie theater / gastropub late this summer, I'm not entirely sure why it took me until February to get there.

Better late than never.

A tiny blink-and-miss-it style theatre, tucked in the back of a bustling bar at the end of a dark hallway. Eclectic d├ęcor, a warm and chuckly staff of film and food-loving hipsters, a menu of classic movie food, redone in a uniquely gastropub sort of way.

Sir had a steak-sausage hot dog with house-made relishes and garlic chips, I sampled the bespoke popcorn (paprika with bacon grease; herbed salts with clarified butter) served in greasy brown-paper bags. The movie was dark and delightful, the drinks were plentiful and the tickets were just five bucks a pop.

There were maybe seven other patrons there last night; it really was just Sir and me and the city. A NYC-inspired night out on the town, having hardly left our block.

This is the kind of place where even a night at the movies can feel like magic.

"The most amazing thing about living in a city like New York is that any night of the week you can go to Paris." -Carrie Bradshaw, SATC, taking herself on a solo date night at the Paris Theatre, in midtown on 58th and 5th.

New Yorkers make up a city of poets, narrating their own internal monologues as they traipse down picturesque streets, photograph cappuccino art, eat gourmet meals and sip artisan cocktails, shop sample sales, observe the crazies on the subways and ponder the meaning of life on their backs in the grass of Central Park. We over-romanticize, over-dramatize, and over-scrutinize as every moment of every day becomes a potential post or tweet, an instant of self-reflection.

I'm still under a year in, so perhaps I should state this as a humble observance rather than brashly categorize myself as such. But at nine months and counting, I'm starting to make sense of the self-narration. There's something about living in the city where so many famous stories were set that makes life feel like a bit of a dream.

I apologize if these flowery self-reflective posts are getting tiresome, but I just can't seem to help it. They come spewing from my fingertips like foul language from the mouth of a yellow-cab taxi driver.

Nobody's forcing you to read this, anyhow.