Heavy traffic, rush hour, the usual.
Make it to 34th and 8th by 6:30.
Two different sets of tables manned by no one I recognize.
"Where's the BAFTA screening?" I ask a ticket collector.
She looks at me blankly and I get this feeling of dread. It's finally happened. I knew it would one day. I'm at the wrong theater.
Race out, and grab the downtown C train to 8th.
Run almost 12 blocks to 19th and Broadway, barely making the screening. I arrive hot (it is, after all, 70 degrees, perfect for April, not November), sweaty, and frizzed.
The movie is great. Totally engaging with excellent performances all around. Before the film ends, I'm asked to come out and greet our Q&A panelists: The Director Jay Roach, Diane Lane, Michael Stuhlbarg, Helen Mirren, and my hero (having just watched all 62 riveting episodes of Breaking Bad this summer), Bryan Cranston.
I walk up to Bryan and introduce myself. He is more handsome in person than on screen. He is boyish, warm, and entirely approachable. Plus, I'm a big sucker for dimples. We talk for about five minutes. And though I'm sure he's never heard this before, I congratulate him on his astonishing performance as Walter White. He graciously accepts my compliment (and probably rolls his eyes after I leave).
I am included in a group photo.
After the movie, and after the Q&A, Jill and I hang around and end up talking to a BAFTA colleague and his wife, and two of the producers from Trumbo.
I feel like I've been to a small party where everyone is interesting, fun, and comfortable to talk to. It's a great night. I don't even feel like a total outsider.
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