Metrograph
Article
Metrograph is a recurring venue in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 13 times across 13 issues between November 19, 2024 and March 18, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as “The White Ribbon screening at Metrograph this afternoon at 3:30pm”; “Heat at Metrograph at 4pm… Wild at Heart at Metrograph at 7:30pm”; “Practical Magic is screening at Metrograph”. It most often appears alongside Los Angeles, New York, Night Club 101.
Metadata
- Category: Venues
- Mention count: 13
- Issue count: 13
- First seen: November 19, 2024
- Last seen: March 18, 2026
Appears In
- Autumn passes and one remembers one’s reverence
- Collected Agenda (lite)
- February Dining.
- My lame blog
- My Glass House
- A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again
- Early August
- City Built on Crystals
- Void of Course
- One Million Billion Interludes
- COLLECTED AGENDA
- California-At-Home
- West-side-highway-dog-park
Related Pages
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- Los Angeles (8 shared issues)
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- New York (8 shared issues)
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- Night Club 101 (7 shared issues)
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- David (5 shared issues)
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- Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research (4 shared issues)
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- Chloe Pingeon (4 shared issues)
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- El Salvador (4 shared issues)
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- Iris (4 shared issues)
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- Jackiearielle (4 shared issues)
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- Jean’s (4 shared issues)
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- Lower East Side (4 shared issues)
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- Manhattan (4 shared issues)
External Links
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- Instagram: https://instagram.com/metrograph
Source Context
Recovered passages from the original issue text. When the raw archive preserved outbound links inside the source passage, they are listed directly under the quote.
In her Substack, Natasha Stagg recommends The White Ribbon screening at Metrograph this afternoon at 3:30pm. I imagine you might find a strange appeal in luxuriating in a weekday afternoon theater experience that will leave you feeling as awful as this film is sure to. Natasha also recommends the new menu in the commissary, but Shannon recently told me it's fallen far from its glory days. I'll have to stop by soon (maybe tomorrow, at 3:30pm) to see for myself.
There’s not much happening today. If you’re still in the city, see a film - Heat at Metrograph at 4pm, Blitz at Roxy Cinema at 7pm, Wild at Heart at Metrograph at 7:30pm, Emilia Perez at IFC at 9:30pm.
From 4:45pm — Practical Magic is screening at Metrograph, accompanied by a Q&A with director Griffin Dunne.
Inline links: screening, Griffin Dunne.
From 6pm at Metrograph — The Whitney Review presents a screening of COFFY (1973), inspired by the essay on Blaxploitation and the selling of radicalism by Brandon Harris in issue 004. Brandon will be joined by Maya Kotomori, Kiernan “Knives” Frances, and ThugPop for a post screening discussion. After party at Gotham.
From 7:15pm at Metrograph — I have evening plans, but if I didn’t, I’d be here watching The Master. One of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s finest.
Inline links: The Master.
From 9:30pm at Metrograph — I want to go to the screening of Mulholland Drive. Honestly, it’s rare that I really love a film, and so for the special ones, I consider it vital to view in theater whenever possible.
Inline links: Metrograph, screening of Mulholland Drive
A quiet night in the realm of events. Consider; dinner at The Marlton’s new restaurant Chez Nous followed by a screening of Buffalo 66 at Metrograph (10pm). I have historically liked The Marlton because it is vaguely past its prime and also a five minute walk from my apartment, and a place where no one ever tells you that you’ve stayed too long. The food at the old restaurant was terrible (so I’ve heard) (I only went for tea), but the recently refurbished Chez Nous is chic and fun and has maintained all of the hotel's original charm. The shrimp salad is very good, as is the martini. I’ll report back after my second visit (possibly tonight). Otherwise - 10pm on a Monday evening is the perfect time to see a film bar none, besides, possibly 1pm on a Friday.
From 7:40pm at Metrograph — My MovieChat recommends Pauline at the Beach
Inline links: Pauline at the Beach
From 9:15pm at Metrograph — My Movie Chat is seeing The Matrix (Lana and Lilly Wachowski, 1999).
Inline links: Metrograph, The Matrix
The Matrix (Lana and Lilly Wachowski, 1999) - image via Metrograph | On Top at Le Bain Wednesday, September 10 From 7pm at KGB Red Room — Straight Girls returns with readings from Claire DeVoogd, Crystal Wood, Jen Fisher, Laith Ayogu, and Willow Wilderness Hour.
Inline links: KGB Red Room, Straight Girls
WHAT I DID Monday, October 6 They are swimming in the water because they hope to never die, the Russian writer is told, in Nostalghia (1983). The Italian villagers are bathing in steaming blue mineral pools and discussing the man who locked his family up for seven years on account of fear of the outside world. It is my favorite Tarkovsky, and Dory suggests we go to Metrograph for the late night viewing tonight. She wants to see the candle scene again. She wants to parse out whether the composer in the film is a product of delusion or reality. She wants to be reminded of dreams and mist and Saint Catherine of Siena, and I want to see foggy long shots and the part where a beautiful little girl in a rock cave tells the drunk man, yes, I am very happy to be alive. It’s a kind of ghostly journey to the theater. Monday night, and so there are not too many people out, though I can tell when a girl is heading to the same place as me because she will be wearing something like a tattered tank top and skirt and lots of gold rings and a few bangles. I spot a few such girls somewhere around Delancey Street, and by the time I reach Ludlow Street, there is a group of us walking in silent quickstep. The theater is surprisingly full. The mood is surprisingly heavy and quiet. By midnight, when the snow falls over the Russian writer and the German Shepard and the Italian countryside and the hologram of the colosseum and the candles have all been placed in quivering gestures of immolation, reverence, or madness, and the lights come on in the theater, I am certain that autumn is here. The last time I saw this film, I stepped outside into bright summer heat, Dory tells me. This is certainly not a summer film, I tell Dory. I step over puddles on the walk home. I mute my own nostalgia. I think about how this isn’t something dull like another movie about aging, but there is something reticent about madness that comes from envisioning eternity. Mystics and schizophrenics. It’s just one life all at once. I stayed up all night last night until the sky turned hazy blue and cotton candy pink, and my Nosferatu metal bedframe turned all washed in pastel color and then, I remembered time had been passing all along. Poured Blueland soup and dragged a dishrag across the hard wood floors. Stood in cream white socks by a small metal stove and fried bacon and eggs in avocado oil. Fried a non-iron-fortified flour tortilla in coconut oil and threw tomato on top. Thought about the sort of person who starts a day in this way. Thought about how a morning like this could almost be something else. Almost like I went to sleep and woke up to this. Cotton candy skies and bacon, eggs, the good sort of oils. Starting a day instead of blurring one into the next. Blurring everything together. Watching fog and music and stone castle villages and Madonnas and Patron Saints all blur together in the most harrowing film in the world at Metrograph. I like Nostalghia, but it is such a harrowing film. BEAUTIFUL AND HARROWING FILM, I text Celia. To My Mother, Tarkovsky dedicated the film. If it wasn’t past midnight, I would call my own family and say sorry. I’ve been thinking about myself a lot. I would mostly say I’m sorry for that. Tuesday, October 7 Here is an idea: clear out your room of everything nice, leave only the decrepit and ugly things behind, lie in filth for a month or a few, and then clear things out even further. Clear out your room of anything aside from blank space and empty floor, and one fitted sheet, and lie there for a little longer. It will be winter or perhaps even spring, now. Bring back your beautiful things. Fill your room with everything nice. Determine how a person should be. Alain de Botton talks about this. He talks about how you can pick a whole new life through exercises in Architectures of Unhappiness like this one. I am springing out of bed this morning with a strong and pervasive desire for a whole new life. It got cold for a minute, and this shift in seasons scrubbed everything clean. I am yet to scrub my room of everything beautiful, everything empty, or everything bad. Today I will build a beautiful life. Today I will buy a beautiful life. This again but this time I mean it: TO DO Finish and edit blog
A good day of screenings at Metrograph — From 2:30pm - That Day, On The Beach (Edward Yang, 1983); from 8pm Twentynine Palms Bruno Dumont, 2003); from t 10:30pm; Mirror (Tarkovsky, 1975),
Inline links: Metrograph, That Day, On The Beach
From 8:10pm at Metrograph — Another screening of Calendar (Atom Egoyan, 1993) - “It is as if Calendar has no beginning and no end. Structured like a hypnotic ellipse, it obsessively rotates, looping spectral memories that endlessly arrive and depart.”
From 8:10pm at Metrograph — Another screening of Calendar (Atom Egoyan, 1993) - “It is as if Calendar has no beginning and no end. Structured like a hypnotic ellipse, it obsessively rotates, looping spectral memories that endlessly arrive and depart.”
Plagiarized images of spring Saturday Everything in my room was quiet in a way that was a little bit like heaven and a little bit like hell. I lay down in bed with a Spring-2024 copy of American Affairs Magazine and I tried to read over an article about Tech Clusters and Stagnation but I ended up in AI psychosis instead. Affirm affirm affirm, my computer said. Your life seems to have solidified, my computer said. The point of it all isn’t really to be that pretty or even that kind, my computer said. The point of life isn’t love or hate, but understanding. The cycles repeat until they flip, and then they rarely return. You shouldn’t really try to understand yourself that well. You should try to resist the compulsion to share the mundanities of your everyday life and certainly of your rich-inner-world. I was supposed to shut my computer around six-pm, but the call came at five-fifty instead. The West Village was like l’heure bleue. The West Village was humid and sweet and warm and lovely. The trees were like silver skeletons, and Washington Square Park was full of teens hosting vigils for deceased foreign leaders and lookalike contests for girls with borderline-personality-disorder and presidential men. You’re in your spring coat, Max said. He had never heard that word before me. Some coats are heavy, and other coats are light, I explained. The outside of Babbo is somewhat unassuming, and the inside of Babbo is burgundy and warm and old school and sweet. The host stand is set back from the entryway and the bar is lively even at six. The whole place is basically windowless, which makes me feel like I am in a cave or on a ship or at a private party or in a nineteen-fifties-film or an architectural-dream. The menus come in small leather binders and a line drawing of a black cartoon jester carrying a bottle of wine is sketched on the first page. I am somewhat unable to typecast the demographic of the clientele here, which is interesting and somewhat rare. Everyone is quite well dressed but unassuming and of various ages though leaning-older. It is impossible to eavesdrop inside Babbo, which goes against my usual sensibilities, and aligns exactly with my dinner-sensibilities. The hostess was an older lady, because all the best restaurants have older-waitstaff-mostly. I’ll let you sit at a table and I won’t make you move, the hostess said. Everybody laughed politely and was very pleased. In the center of Babbo, there is a velvety staircase. This would be a good place for a private party, I said. The hostess led us up the velvet stairs. In the upstairs of Babbo, there is a burgundy room and a big bar and white-table-cloths and the waiter poured city-water out of metal-watering-pails and into glass-cups. The specialty martini is made very-dry. Can you make it very-dirty, I asked. We can do anything you want, the waiter said. The waiter was an old Italian man. He wrote down the martini order and our names on a napkin. MARTINI ORDER, the napkin read. You’ve been here before, the waiter said. Once, I said. You look familiar, he said. I’m not, I said. The waiter told a story about the time that all the old French restaurants closed and never returned. Only the Italian restaurant remained, he explained. You come as a child then perhaps on a date at eighteen then with family then a wedding, he said. Coming back and coming back and coming back over and over again. Anytime the water glass would run low, the waiter would appear with the metal watering pale, and the glass would be filled up. The bread came with ricotta and fresh olive oil and sea salt. Squid ink pasta and branzino and broccoli. Two martinis and a cappuccino after dinner and I melted the sugar cubes on the surface of the coffee and then I ate them with a spoon. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, all the staff said, when we left. The theme of the magazine launch was print revival and kosher pickle martinis. There were girls scout cookies on the counter, and the vibe was one of general mystique, though all I could make out when the editor spoke was something about “fiction” and “Elon Musk.” Saoirse and Olivia were behind the bar, and they were looking like angels wearing white and being kind. The late winter hadn’t really felt like real life, so it was nice and quite affirming to make eye contact with my friends. You’re the best contract employee in the world, the girls assured each other. You’re the best girlfriend ever. You’re the sweetest girl to ever walk this Earth. The magazine was free and so I helped myself and left by midnight. I can psyop myself, and then I can do whatever I want. My process is I write everything that happened and then I filter it into obfuscation one-million-times. My process is to invent my own school of movement and adopt a moral code. My process is totally against religious iconography as vague gestures towards false meaning, but totally pro iconography when one’s belief in something is complete. My self psyop sometimes looks like self experimentation, or bandaid-solution, or destruction and construction and being social-chair. I tread very lightly, and when I act according to things I hate or things I miss, it goes about exactly how you’d expect it to. Here is something: call up my parents and I read my diaries aloud on my phone. Everything seems like the end of the world in dizzy night, and: The boys hands were bloody in the morning, and; I ordered coffee and milkshake and breakfast sandwich in, and: everyone seems so fragile in the sunshine, and: One thing about being here, hazy in the sun is I feel less aggressive. In New York, the sun keeps coming back and going away and I love it when my friends and I talk about the weather. I order green juice and cold brew in the morning, and it’s quiet and cold-again. I order chopped-green-goddess-sandwhich and I seek intellectual-stimulation and I wear a brown-leather-jacket to the west-side-highway-dog-park. My process is everything-beautiful-all-the-time and iphone photography and whenever my perspective is called into question I can call up Amelia who can affirm how happy I really was all the time, there, and sometimes now. She’s totally straight-edge, and she always has a good sense of the way things were and are and are heading. Sunday Sitting on the couch in an empty apartment watching the gray sky turn light in the courtyard and listening to the garbage trucks fire up on the somewhat distant street. It feels like waking up in New York as a child, right now. Awake too early. Jet lagged, almost. At a magazine launch during evening fading night in a white house with framed art and long french windows and yellow trim, a man was telling me that the only good thing about not growing up in New York City is that you get to experience the thing that it is to understand the city for the first time and to let it consume you. If you grow up in New York, then you understand the city all along and this is mostly a great thing, he was saying, but what about that feeling when you arrive and you’re older and you understand a place like this for the very first time. There were daffodils all throughout the apartment, and carpeted floors over wood that stretched back into room after room like a maze. Everyone was calling each other “dear” and there was a sense of things as generally boisterous but not overblown. I like older people who love New York. I like people that are sober-minded, fun, and rarely cynical. The people at the party wore pearls and black and ballet flats and lived uptown and they kept on asking me about New York. Do you love New York, they kept on asking. And I said yes and I meant it and they seemed pleased The air conditioner is running. The sky is gray and sweet. I always am very aware of causation, and I know how to understand what makes something bad and what makes something good. I don’t think it’s narcissistic to try to understand your own intentions but one shouldn’t go too much deeper than that. I would never betray anyone I love. I want ginger beer for breakfast lunch and dinner. I want hydrangeas in the apartment. I want to fall asleep in a room sized bed and be airlifted into daylight and clothed in blue sweaters. I want to be dosed with soylent but not lobotomized. Last night, at the magazine launch, a man was telling me about the story of his life. I lived across from Jeffrey Epstein, he said. I’m a lawyer, he said. I know hundreds of people, he explained. Do you know any secrets, I asked. The girls never looked underage to me, he shrugged. Isabel pulled me away. We walked down the long and wooden hallway and we stood by open windows. The figures across the street looked almost cartoonish, running like shadowy stick figures down the paths in hazy dusk in Central Park. So winter is great until March comes around, and I am not so ready for spring equinox and abandon-interiority and things moving faster and faster and faster. Everything material feels kind of cartoonishly good. Everything on my computer feels kind of cartoonishly evil. Cassandra and I bought big blue books full of curses, and now we are going to open them on the floor of an apartment on the Upper West Side and wear cable-knit sweaters and assume invincibility until proven otherwise. Since Darby gave me a blue heart-shaped bowl and an evil-eye bracelet that I haven’t taken off since, I’ve realized that I need to hold my cards closer to my chest. I put myself to sleep at dusk tonight because there are colors flashing in front of my open eyes like hallucinations and signs of delirium. I wake up on the couch shivering under my spring coat. Little white dried flowers all around me. A new wooden toothbrush propped on one clean shelf in an otherwise crowded cabinet. I wait for midnight so the new day can begin, and then at twelve-oh-one I say thank you to God one million times. I go outside for a walk in humid winter air. I go inside, and I’m alone again. I go to a building that looks “new” in Tribeca, and I go to a building that looks “old”. I interrupted a meeting, and I was given plastic bottles of fireball behind the bar. My friends were all talking about picking up new hobbies. A boy outside told me about adult gymnastics. I told the girls about rock climbing. I considered aerial silks. I considered French lessons and online shopping and recommending books-to-buy-boys-who-are-just-getting-into-reading. I watched a video essay about how not to let the moon affect your moods. I watched a video essay about undersea cables. So, February was fine. Cold and a little bit dreary and Iris keeps on telling me that above all she considers herself to be pragmatic, which seems to be working out for her and so I’m taking notes. I keep on deciding to just become nihilistic about it, but even when I don’t set alarms, I always wake up in time to do the things I should. DIRECTORY Wednesday, March 18 from 4:45pm at Metrograph —El Sur (1983, Victor Erice) screens. I have a special fondness for the landscapes of Northern Spain and the only beer I like is estrella, per, my Galician friend Rebecca. This film is not about spanish beer, but rather a spanish girl by the same name. “it’s half a film that contains a whole world of wonders.” Thursday, March 19 evening plans: MANHATTAN: From 7:30pm at Night Club 101 — Lubov says THE INTERNET MADE ME DO IT. A night of readings and music with Ada Donnelly, Alex Bienstock, Marble Index, Kyle Sullivan Dobbs, Lorry Kikta, Melissa Seward, Angel Money, and Yuri NYC. | RSVP here
Backlinks
- A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again
- A Very Pussycat Thanksgiving
- Alec Niedenthal
- Andrei Tarkovsky
- Ani Tatintsyan
- Autumn passes and one remembers one’s reverence
- California-At-Home
- Callie Reiff
- Cassandra
- City Built on Crystals
- COLLECTED AGENDA
- Collected Agenda (lite)
- David Peter Francis
- Doxy Mag
- Early August
- Erin Satterthwaite
- Events
- February Dining.
- Fredericks & Freiser
- Gnosticism
- Iris
- Jackiearielle
- Kaitlin Phillips
- Martos Gallery
- Mast Books
- Mutt Readings
- My Glass House
- My lame blog
- Northern California
- One Million Billion Interludes
- Organizations
- Painters Pool
- Paul Felten
- People: A
- People: C
- People: P
- Places
- Publications
- ROXY CINEMA
- San Francisco
- Silke Linder
- The Marlton
- Topanga
- Vanya on Huron Street
- Venues
- Void of Course
- West-side-highway-dog-park
- Whitney Review
- Williamsburg