Tonight, feeling beat down and blackened by the world, I remembered the words of the old master:

“WHEN FORTUNA SPINS YOU DOWNWARDS, GO OUT TO A MOVIE AND GET MORE OUT OF LIFE.”

And so saying, at dusk I put on my scarf and leather jacket and headed for the station to catch the U2 to Alexanderplatz, where I planned to grab coffee and walk the last two miles to Babylon Kreuzberg Theatre to see Ken Russell’s

. . . THE DEVILS (1971), which is currently playing worldwide in its extended director’s cut form. God-Emperor Ken Russell is one of my favorite directors, but of all his films, this one was completely buried for decades, having been branded blasphemous (it isn’t) . . . and so I had only seen what any other bum like me scrounging around in the dark corners of the internet would have found: a high-definition theatrical cut that is missing fifteen or so minutes of insane footage that the suits had deemed unfit for human consumption. Of course, even this truncated version is incredible! Yet I had always hoped the film would be remastered and restored, and behold: here it is.

Now that it’s out, everyone and their kid sister is pretending it’s been their favorite movie since they were five years old . . . but it’s OK: they can say whatever they want about it on insufferable Letterboxd. I will not look upon their works and despair. Instead, I’ll go to a movie and get more out of life.

I walked many miles through the BRISK AUTUMNAL NIGHT to get to Kreuzberg, and upon turning the corner I saw the ancient words writ upon the glowing marquee:

. . . and knew that I had made it there unscathed. The outside was vacant. I had got there a half-hour early, which I always do when I go see a movie alone, on account of I like to walk around the neighborhood and drink coffee until it’s TIME.

Passing the theater, I saw the poster behind the glass and felt a gladness at it:

I killed time circling the block and eavesdropping . . . and then I hung up my detective hat and headed back where I had come from to find there was now a small congregation of fellow world-escapers gathered around the front doors. It was a sold-out show, after all. I entered the building and took a seat in the cafe. I got a good look at everyone. I regarded them gently. We were all there for the same reason, and it was a good reason. We had, all of us, chosen peace.

I blinked and found myself in the fourteenth seat of the sixth row and felt a strangeness at the bold primary colors all around me:

It isn’t worth talking about how all the previews filled me with dread and hopelessness . . . oh my god!!! We don’t know how to make movies anymore!!! (Why is every movie now about the horror of having no agency? Have you noticed this . . . ?)

Finally the shadow passed, and THE DEVILS began without any introduction. Someone in the booth had pressed a button, and suddenly we were all having a very good time at the movies. My brothers and sisters in attendance seemed to love it . . . there was a feeling of goodness in the room that put a tear in this old man’s eye. But I won’t tell you why. You’ll just have to go see it for yourself . . .

Afterward, I departed the theater and headed toward nearby Kottbusser Tor, the worst train station in Berlin, to catch the U3 home. But of course as soon as I descended the station stairs, I realized I had lost my wallet, which I never do. Frantically I patted myself down, to no avail . . . it must have fallen out of the inner pocket in my jacket when I took out my phone. But when was that? And where? I’d done that a dozen times tonight all over East Berlin. I groaned when I mentally cataloged everything inside my wallet, which I would have to replace immediately: all my credit cards, my US driver’s license, my EU citizenship card . . . I would have to notify the Austrian embassy, and on and on. For God’s sake!

I retraced my steps three blocks back to the theater and found nothing but piles of yellow leaves on the sidewalk. I asked the staff inside if they’d found a wallet and they said no one had turned anything in yet. I did not know what else to do other than accept my fate, so I began walking back toward the station, which I did so dejectedly. I regretted having left my house now that I had to deal with this. No sooner had a thought this thought when, miraculously, my phone rang . . . it was the Berlin police! A young dude on the other end of the line told me they had my wallet and I could pick it up from the little auxiliary police station in the sky bridge above Kottbusser Tor. I told him I was two minutes away and blasted over there. From the grungy street below I saw the neon POLIZEI sign lit up in a dark window and ran up the stairs where an invisible hand buzzed me inside. I found myself in a small gloomily lit office with five police officers. The dude who had called me was standing behind a counter smiling and holding my wallet.

He took out my citizenship card and held it up to my face. He said, “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” I said. “How did you get my phone number?”

“We looked up your name in the database and saw you had reported a cellar break-in a few months ago. Your phone number was attached to it.”

“Ah, yeah . . . some scumbags stole my friend’s suitcase. But I got it back.”

He shuffled the cards back into my wallet and handed the thing to me. “Some boys found your wallet by the bus station down below. So you got that back too.” He smiled.

“I guess I’m just lucky that way. Ciao.”

I exited the building and thrust my hands into my pockets. I descended the concrete stairs in the direction of the train station, where I boarded the U3 bound for Nollendorfplatz. The train was full of happy couples holding hands and talking quietly. I sat alone at the end of the car and thought about THE DEVILS. I recalled Oliver Reed’s speech in the courtroom that had made me tear up in the theater just an hour before, and felt a tenderness.