Is quar­an­tine view­ing a time for edi­fi­ca­tion or relaxation?

At least for me, the recent world­wide cri­sis trig­gered by the coro­n­avirus pan­dem­ic has dredged up mem­o­ries of ​“Time Enough at Last,” the old Twi­light Zone episode in which book­worm Burgess Mered­ith sur­vives the apoc­a­lypse, but stymies a hap­py eter­ni­ty in his beloved library by break­ing his read­ing glass­es. As we all quar­an­tine in our homes for the sake of pub­lic health, we find our­selves with time enough at last to do all the view­ing we’ve been putting off for the rare day when noth­ing else would com­pete for our attention.

But rather than frag­ile spec­ta­cles, it appears that some part of my brain is the thing that’s snapped. What­ev­er noble inten­tions may have been espoused at the out­set of this social-dis­tanc­ing peri­od – a long-over­due Max Ophüls marathon, per­haps – have since been cast aside in favor of repeat watch­es. The past two weeks have seen re-vis­its with cult clas­sics The For­bid­den Zone and What Do You Say to a Naked Lady, a check-in with Crim­son Peak, round three with Cli­max, round four with Once Upon a Time in Hol­ly­wood and Uncut Gems, and the umpteenth time around with the lat­er sea­sons of Mad Men.

I have the for­tu­nate excuse that for my girl­friend and admirably patient co-quar­an­ti­nee, these are first encoun­ters. But I know myself well enough to admit that even with­out the pre­text, my movie diet would look pret­ty similar.

A good­ly num­ber of col­leagues appear to have land­ed in a sim­i­lar sit­u­a­tion, where the best-laid plans to short­en the rainy-day view­ing list suc­cumb to the impulse to return to that which we already know we love. It speaks to a fun­da­men­tal dif­fer­ence in pathol­o­gy, depend­ing on whether a per­son regards cin­e­ma as enrich­ment or leisure.

Any devot­ed stu­dent of the film medi­um allows room in their heart for both modes of view­ing, but minute by minute and movie by movie, one imper­a­tive will over­take the oth­er. The scores of reluc­tant couch pota­toes need a relax­ant more bad­ly than they need a stim­u­lant right now, and the com­fort of famil­iar­i­ty has a sooth­ing effect even when the movie itself (Cli­max, for instance) hap­pens to be a claus­tro­pho­bic hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry nightmare.

Cer­tain­ty has fall­en into a dire short sup­ply, and know­ing the turns a film will take can afford some small fac­sim­i­le of con­trol over what we insist on con­tin­u­ing to call our lives. Tack­ling a new film, even a ​‘fun’ one in no dan­ger of being brand­ed a cul­tur­al veg­etable, demands a mea­sure of dis­sec­tion, analy­sis, and as such, willpow­er. With a rewatch, those of us feel­ing drained can just sit back and enjoy the ride. We already know where it brings us.