ARCHIVE: "Man, I wish I had your job."
2006, I worked for a website that was owned by Disney, later by NBC/Universal, someone else in the middle of all that, I forget who. It started out fine and by the time I quit it was no longer fine. (I know, hilarious, that anyone would quit a journalism gig when they're so difficult to come by now, but there came a point in 2015 where I was fed up. Maybe later for that story.) Anyway, it's gone now, and I like to pretend that my withdrawal caused its collapse.
I was the sole film reviewer for a good chunk of the ten years I worked for this place, churning out short, jokey, blurby posts until about 2010 when I transitioned to longer form reviews that more resembled proper film criticism. My friends Grae and Jen were there, too, each for some time before moving on to other jobs. I stuck around because, in general, no matter what it is, I just stick around.
From 2005 to 2008, the first three years of my employment, I had to cover lots of films each week and also write a silly little column. A space-filler. Here's one of them, the title (see above, in quotes) the most frequent response I'd get – and still get – from people who thought they wanted a ride on the movie review hamster wheel.
Here it is, more or less, with 2026-perspective notes attached:
"Man, I wish I had your job!"
Oh, do you? Because here's how it works: I get to see movies before you do and I see them for free. This sounds kind of awesome, I understand. I tend to see one or two every weekday. Still sounding awesome, true. Here's an overview of my schedule for the week. You are now my +1...
Monday: An American Haunting. A private screening room on Rodeo Drive. Yet no amount of posh surroundings can make the stink of this movie go away. *2026 note: This used to be the best screening room in the city – free candy – on one of the the worst stretches of road. Now it's changed hands, and there's no more free candy. It's fine. I understand that beyond having to sit through a substandard horror film there is no actual hardship involved in any of this. But Rodeo Drive is still no place you want to be unless it's Christmas, and then the Cartier and Chanel flagships have big bows on them, which is charming.
Tuesday: Mission: Impossible III. Big round-em-up thing called an "all-media," where all sorts of bottom-feeder journalists like me and tons of riffraff like you, who won free tickets from a radio station, all come together. This one's at the huge Cinerama Dome on Sunset Boulevard where the screen is so curvy that you'll think your eyesight is screwed up when you watch the movie. At this one you'll be herded around by studio publicists who say things at the entrance like, "Once your parking is validated, please move along." You'll want to be surly at this moment and say, "Thanks for that, I wouldn't have known enough to keep on walking into the theater if you hadn't been there to repeat it three times in a scolding tone of voice." Instead you'll be like me and just shut up and take it, because you are the polite behavior you wish to see in the world. The movie is boring, but you get complimentary caramel corn, a personal gift from Mr. Tom Cruise himself. *2026 note: The all-media screening, while annoying, is not nearly as arduous as a premiere. A premiere is an event for the cast and crew, and no one else, and it lasts for roughly 1000 hours. For you, the journalist, it is an endurance challenge, a parking nightmare, an obstacle course, a reasonable-bedtime destroyer, a big drag. Having said that, the youthful social-media influencers they invite these days seem to be having fun. Good for them.
Wednesday: Down in the Valley. Private screening room in West Hollywood. I know, you're like, "What's Down in the Valley?" But that's the thing when you're a professional whatever I am. I have to see what they assign. People never take this into consideration. You see a TV spot for some boring crap and you think, "Oh, hell no, I'm not spending money on that." Then you have the luxury of forgetting it ever existed. Well, I had to see it, and then I had to write about it. Benchwarmers, Phat Girlz. All so you didn't have to. *2026 note: the gift of quitting a job and becoming your own editor is that you no longer have to watch bullshit unless you choose that bullshit for yourself. I haven't seen an Avatar since the first one, I've skipped several DC and MCU events, no Tron: Ares, no Red Notice–style content. It has given me the time I needed to perfect a thoroughly snooty attitude.
Friday: Art School Confidential, the screening of which conflicted with something else. That's what Friday is for. Or for seeing something the distributor decided not to screen for press. Like Larry the Cable Guy: Health Inspector. Saw that one at the Beverly Center, which is the mall closest to my home. I was alone in the theater. I carried a bag of Panda Express from the food court right into the theater. I took cellphone pictures of the screen when Larry got dressed like Carmen Miranda. I sent the picture to friends who view Mr. The Cable Guy as a kind of sex symbol. They liked it. Then I got to call them and go, "Hey, guess where I am? Alone at the Larry the Cable Guy movie and I'm eating Panda Express!" *2026 note: RIP Beverly Center theater – which was eventually turned into an expansive Forever 21, and then someone died in a dressing room, and now I think even that place has closed up because the mall life is a tough one these days. It was one of Los Angeles's great janky cinema environments. Not that it was like that when we moved here in 1999. You could still see Beck and Winona Ryder catching a movie there. I saw Glitter on opening night there. But its descent was swift. Seats slashed, graffiti, effortless theater-hopping, big brazen oafs carrying in large bags of lunch from Panda.
Final note: The photo up top is from a print-out of that particular week's column, listing the films I saw and wrote about. I remember the existence of the MI:3 installment but not the plot. I also remember Park Chan-wook's Lady Vengeance and Cristi Puiu's The Death of Mr. Lazarescu. And though I did indeed write about it, I have no memory of The Promise and I'm giving myself the gift of not bothering to look it up.
