“Look — imagine a big old movie palace with a courtyard full of hustlers and copycats. At night the fakes climb the walls, slipping in through the back, hawking bootlegs and pretending they run the show. But the person who actually runs the house doesn’t sneak in over the fence. He walks through the front door, buys his ticket, and opens the lobby like he owns it.
The ones who belong to him — the regulars, the cast, the crew — they hear his voice when he calls. He can shout their names from the marquee and they’ll come. Because they know his taste, his laugh, his way of explaining a scene. They follow him into the theater, because he goes ahead of them, knows the best seats, knows where the exits are. A stranger can shout spoilers or promises, but the crowd doesn’t trust that voice — they scatter.
There are also hired hands, temp ushers and seasonal ticket-takers, who don’t really care about the films. When trouble comes — a fire alarm or a mob of pirates — the hireling bolts, pocketing the till, leaving the audience exposed. He doesn’t own the cinema, so he doesn’t risk anything for the people.
But the real festival director? He’s not in it for the paycheck. He’s the one who knows every extra’s name, who sits with the nervous actor, who gives his coat to a shivering fan. If a stampede or a raider threatens his theater, he runs toward it, not away. He’d rather take the hit than let his people be hurt.
And he says this loud enough for everyone to hear: I am the front door of the cinema — the honest way in. If anyone comes in through me, they’ll find rest and a true screening. The phonies sneak in other ways; they want to steal, to scatter the crowd, to ruin the picture. I came so the audience would have life — good, full screenings — and I’d give everything to keep them safe.
I’ve got other theaters too, audiences in places you’d never think. I must bring them in as well. That’s why I’m the director who gives his life for his people — and yes, I have the authority to take it up again.”
