1991 - Autumn
Resident Alien will open in Manhattan on 18 October. . . It will be shown at the Angelika Cinema. This location places it in a twilight zone between unabashed festival material and genuine entertainment. Naturally, the attempt to shift the picture's status involves promotion, and promotion involves visits at dusk to such never-before-heard-of towns as Madison in New Jersey.
Last Monday ans Tuesday, an extremely courageous gentleman called Professor Rose, who presides over something called Sneak Preview Symposium, arranged for Resident Alien to be shown at his local cinema and persuaded his nephew to bring me, Mr Nossiter, and one of the film's publicists out of New York into an altered state.
The most important thing I learned from this entire occasion was that I am becoming deaf. Doubtless my friends have been aware of my infirmity for some time; I hadn't noticed. I can hear easily what is said close at hand, but even in that medium-sized auditorium every quention had to be relayed to me by the Professor. I shall be sorry when this manifestation of my decline si complete. I don't mind not seeing much, but I like to hear everything except music. Words are my staple diet.
I went last week to New York University on Broadway. . . In the screening room, unlike the audience to whom I spoke in Madison, there were no real people - only students, mostly male. . . They did not have to be coaxed into speaking, and all their questions were technical - how long had it taken to make the film Resident Alien, for example.
Now I am back on the treadmill again, flying from one extreme to another. On Monday, in the black of night, I was taken to the home of NBC, . . There I was interviewed by a Mr Matson, . .On Tuesday, in pouring rain, I went to the office on West 26th Street, where I was interrogated by Mr Lou Maletta, . . On the evening of the same day, Resident Alien was shown at the Archives, which is a hostel for homeless movies on East Second Street.
I have known for some months that, at the very end of October I would be sent to St Paul to speak on the subject of aging to whomsoever in that city's gay population would listen. . . I arrived at La Guardia and in Minnesota at the scheduled times. . . As night fell over St Paul, so did the snow. . . by morning, the snow might be twelve inches deep. This prophecy was fulfilled. The university was shut and Friday's gathering of all the ancient homosexuals of Minneapolis was cancelled.
Every Thanksgiving Day for at least the past five years, I have been a guest at the New Jersey home of my friend's family. His uncle collects me from Manhattan and returns me. It is a very convivial occasion; the hospitality has to be consumed to be believed.
Last Monday ans Tuesday, an extremely courageous gentleman called Professor Rose, who presides over something called Sneak Preview Symposium, arranged for Resident Alien to be shown at his local cinema and persuaded his nephew to bring me, Mr Nossiter, and one of the film's publicists out of New York into an altered state.
The most important thing I learned from this entire occasion was that I am becoming deaf. Doubtless my friends have been aware of my infirmity for some time; I hadn't noticed. I can hear easily what is said close at hand, but even in that medium-sized auditorium every quention had to be relayed to me by the Professor. I shall be sorry when this manifestation of my decline si complete. I don't mind not seeing much, but I like to hear everything except music. Words are my staple diet.
I went last week to New York University on Broadway. . . In the screening room, unlike the audience to whom I spoke in Madison, there were no real people - only students, mostly male. . . They did not have to be coaxed into speaking, and all their questions were technical - how long had it taken to make the film Resident Alien, for example.
Now I am back on the treadmill again, flying from one extreme to another. On Monday, in the black of night, I was taken to the home of NBC, . . There I was interviewed by a Mr Matson, . .On Tuesday, in pouring rain, I went to the office on West 26th Street, where I was interrogated by Mr Lou Maletta, . . On the evening of the same day, Resident Alien was shown at the Archives, which is a hostel for homeless movies on East Second Street.
I have known for some months that, at the very end of October I would be sent to St Paul to speak on the subject of aging to whomsoever in that city's gay population would listen. . . I arrived at La Guardia and in Minnesota at the scheduled times. . . As night fell over St Paul, so did the snow. . . by morning, the snow might be twelve inches deep. This prophecy was fulfilled. The university was shut and Friday's gathering of all the ancient homosexuals of Minneapolis was cancelled.
Every Thanksgiving Day for at least the past five years, I have been a guest at the New Jersey home of my friend's family. His uncle collects me from Manhattan and returns me. It is a very convivial occasion; the hospitality has to be consumed to be believed.