Eating Through Blue Velvet
The one where I design a movie palace
A few days after the late, great David Lynch passed away, my friend invited me to a showing of Blue Velvet at the Michigan Theater. Situated off of the iconic State Street, this theater boasts a glowing marquee and classic ticket booth that harkens to the Pickford days of old. When I toured the University of Michigan in high school, I saw Midsommar in the neighboring State Theater, a similarly nostalgic but smaller venue.
I was immediately hooked.
Beyond the ornate interior and carousel of movie posters framed out front, I love the Michigan Theater because the screens are giant. Each screening room houses 200 attendees and fosters the buzzy, electric moviegoing experience that transforms the film into a portal world. As my friend and I waited in the snaking, velvet-cordoned concessions line, I considered the rows of candy boxes and overflowing popcorn machine. I started to focus on what I was hearing, as well as what I was seeing.
The crunch of popcorn, the sloshing ice in paper cups beaded with that sticky soda fountain condensation, the whispers of a first date, a fifth date, the rubber soles on striped nylon carpet. I have always been fascinated by what makes a theater experience great. Sitting in that screening room, sardined with the mass of puffer coats and hushed excitement, I felt that simmering collective joy that keeps me running back to jewel box theaters.
Pinning down the feeling I get inside small cinemas is like catching a butterfly. It’s the anticipation as the previews roll, the food and drink shared by a room of strangers, the chipped finishings, and the faint projector hum. It’s difficult to describe.
After trudging through the bitter Michigan cold after Blue Velvet, it struck me that I wanted to design my dream movie theater menu for this week’s newsletter. I thought about David Lynch’s stylistic toolbox. The classic American diner, the surrealist drive-in, the pine forest, and the supernatural strawberry milkshake signature that fills theaters for Blue Velvet and keep viewers rewinding Twin Peaks. There is so much in his work from which to draw inspiration.
As I wrote this issue, I tiptoed around the idea of posting it. Candidly, I am still slightly nervous that this edition is slightly rough-hewn. I spoke about my love for movies much more eloquently in Food on Film II, but this week, it just spilled out of my brain and onto the page.
I considered the theaters I hold dearest, the Alamo Drafthouse Cinema and the New Beverly Cinema, and I drew inspiration from the Nitehawk Cinema and Monty’s Good Burger. I wish I had a more cogent explanation of my design, but I truly just poured my positive theater experiences and flashes of Blue Velvet cinematography into a diner-inspired menu page.
What I lack in graphic design talent, I make up for in enthusiasm. With a slate of Twin Peaks stills and a camera roll of vintage marquees, I started inventing signature drinks, candy assortments, and popcorn flavors that captured that fleeting feeling.
It would be reasonable, at this juncture, to ask: Why are all the prices on this menu whole numbers? Why are they extraordinarily low? This restaurant must have extremely minimal overhead. To that, I say, this is my fantasy Blue Velvet movie palace, and I want everyone to enjoy it. I kindly ask that you suspend your disbelief.
When I imported my finished menu into the newsletter, I considered writing a granular menu breakdown, but I quickly realized that not only would that extend this issue far beyond the email limit, it would be an informative but ultimately fruitless endeavor.
The final project was never the point.
About an hour after I publish this issue, I will be returning to my beloved Michigan Theater for a double feature of Singin’ in the Rain and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. As I constructed “Eating Through Blue Velvet,” I felt like Joel, swimming through his memories with Clementine, pulling the precious, joyful ones out of the slush of life. I also felt like Don Lockwood, wringing the present for every drop of love and vivacity it offers in the downpour.
If you’ve ever found comfort somewhere other-worldly, be it an old cinema, a secret garden, or the scuffed cover of a well-loved book, I encourage you to make something that would fit inside it.
Calling my Impossible® burger “The Juno” was a nod to my favorite movie when I was a teenager. I included a Breakfast Bap because as I was writing, I thought about my time studying abroad in England. I made “The Mia Wallace” $5 to honor Pulp Fiction and also because I have no actual budgetary constraints, so I don’t have to worry about hemorrhaging cash because of a milkshake’s low sticker price. I digress.
Watching a movie, enjoying a root beer float, sliding across drenched sidewalks, this is all the stuff of life. Rarely in our adult lives do we permit ourselves to plum the depths of our imagination. Drawing up my Avery Plates movie theater menu was an exercise in unfettered imagining.
At the beginning of this year, I combed through boxes stuffed with composition notebooks, watercolors, and paper collages I made when I was younger. I was reminded that the person you were when you were unrestrained by the fear of being trivial, that person is still you. To let your mind meander and create, to do something for no reason. I think it’s a truly beautiful thing.
The song of the week is “Blue Velvet” by Bobby Vinton, both apt for the subject of this week’s issue and perfect for Valentine’s Day. Released in 1963, “Blue Velvet” is a classic pop ballad characterized by its lush orchestration and smooth vocal delivery.
If you gravitate towards the string-dominated orchestral arrangement and warm, analog reverb, you may tumble down a rabbit hole of similarly luxuriant covers. I particularly like Lana del Rey’s version, though hers is more brooding, of course.
As always, thank you so much for reading. Now, go do an inconsequential art project.
Until next time,
Avery
uhhhh, LOVED this one. Bravo for analog reverb and whole number, low prices:) Also for the guessing game of your most recent watches - don't know 'em all. Thanks you lovely Avery