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Russ Collins, the director of the Michigan Theater, likes to tell the story of the General Motors executives who visited him years ago to scope out the theater and decide whether or not it would be a workable venue for some of their larger corporate functions. The night that Collins invited them to stop by, the featured film—much to his amusement—was Michael Moore’s GM-exec-damning documentary Roger & Me. “Michael Moore has always had a particular fondness in his heart for the Michigan Theater,” said Collins. “He grew up in Flint and has always come here to see specialty films.” It seemed fitting, then, for Moore’s newest movie, Fahrenheit 9/11, to enjoy its local premiere last Thursday at midnight at the Michigan. By 11 o’clock, the line of ticket-holders waiting to go into the theater stretched a full block to Thompson Street. Young people shouted and waved to each other across Liberty. The night air was cool but charged with the same sort of nervous and celebratory energy of Pamplona at daybreak just before the rampaging bulls are released. Within
the milling crowd stood Dylan Strzynski, looking for his girlfriend
and her sisters. He grinned. “This reminds me of the line
for Lord of the Rings, the way folks got all dressed up in costumes
for the opening. I wonder if anybody camping out in line for Michael
Moore movies ever dresses up like Michael Moore.” Strzynski,
who is 28, works at Herb David Guitar Studio. He is 6 feet tall
and has the lean, sturdy build of a first-baseman. Thursday night
he wore small glasses, scratched at his sideburns, and showed an
impish smile. At last he found his girlfriend and they went into
the theater, through the packed lobby, and took seats in the lower
level’s cozy dark. Soon every seat in their section was filled. Finally, the main event began. Throughout the first twenty minutes, laughter and pandemonium reigned. But as the film spun toward weightier issues, such as the violence wreaked by the United States Army on civilians in Iraq, the crowd settled into a disturbed silence, only to clatter to furious life every once in a while, when, for example, a U.S. soldier declared onscreen, “I would never go back [to Iraq] to kill other poor people.” A mom from Flint, followed by Moore’s camera crews, howled over the death of her son, a soldier in Iraq. Strzynski watched tears burn to life in the eyes of a friend in his row. “Look,” he said later, “Michael Moore is kind of a liberal Rush Limbaugh. He tries to provoke certain reactions. But I like him. Of course the movie’s not a straight documentary, it’s an opinion piece. Anytime you choose which footage to show—and when and how you show it—you are editorializing reality. But this is still powerful stuff. And it holds important truths.” After the movie, the crowd streamed dazedly from their seats back into the lobby. There seemed to be confusion as to what people ought to be feeling. Everyone was running into friends they hadn’t seen in ages, but felt little urge to whoop it up. A young man handing out flyers for his band’s show the next night was met with grim stares. Strzynski explained that a cousin of his named Jeremy had just returned from a tour of military duty in Iraq. “He’s glad he’s home safe,” Strzynski said. “He thinks it’s gonna get a lot worse. He’ll tell you, ‘This is Vietnam.’” Strzynski motioned around him. “Look at this. People are angry and shocked.” But
what actions might his fellow theater-goers take to change things?
“Don’t vote for someone who’s not representing
you,” Strzynski replied. “It will be very difficult
for anyone who sees this movie to vote for George Bush.” It
was 2:30 in the morning. Strzynski headed for a rear door. Out on
the wet streets, a buzz of voices followed him; similar conversations
coursed in all directions as people headed for their cars and their
homes. Somewhere, one could imagine, the President and the Vice
President were huddled together, more terrified by this movie than
any involving sharks. A2P
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