Welcome to the Quarantine Movie Club

BY MattHEW Hawkins

*https://twitter.com/SpectacleNYC/status/1238154185348190208*

It ultimately took COVID-19, a global pandemic that abruptly shut down every life, to give me the green light to become a participant of society, at least one specific aspect. That is, I finally checked out whatever “everyone” was obsessed with on Netflix at that particular moment, in this particular case their original docuseries Tiger King. Hey, there wasn’t a whole lot going on , so I finally had the time to spare.

Previously to this, I like many other purveyors of lost and outsider media, whenever anyone brought up whatever film or television program that had managed to capture the attention of mainstream audiences, I was always eager to rattle off whatever my alternative interests were in direct response. The manner of how I described said alternative programming was intended to either amaze or impress or annoy, depending on the recipient of said intel. But generally speaking, I never had the time, nor was I willing to set any aside, for what “the normies” were consuming.

Like several others of my ilk, I’ve managed to form an identity out of my passion for esoteric and eccentric content, and a primary component has been the desire to share such treasures with friends. This is a somewhat high-falutin way of saying “I’m known as the guy who likes to come over and show crazy movies”. Another core element is the context I will provide, either about the subject at hand or any personal anecdotes that are associated.

A prime example would be GETEVEN (technically the title of the film is Get Even, but the lack of space between the two words and the all caps nature in which it is presented means it should be pronounced as a single word and also shouted) by John de Hart, who I imagine in some alternate reality as being just as renown and celebrated as the auteur filmmaker responsible for The Room, Tommy Wiseau (in this other timeline, it is Nikola Tesla that is credited for the lightbulb, not Thomas Edison). Alongside the movie itself is my tale of how I obtained my copy, which I had attempted to secure from and an unsuccessful attempt at purchasing a disc directly from de Hart via his website (the amount via PayPal remained untouched for so long that I assumed he had died- which is not the case, by the way, he is alive and well) led to me spend nearly 10 times amount when obtaining a copy from an eBay seller in Australia (much of the cost was due to shipping). When I would later discover that it was available for streaming, for free, via Amazon Prime, the absurd price tag and associated trouble were even funnier as a result.

There were many movies that I was able to introduce to friends, which elicited either a “Wow, that was incredible” or “Well, that was certainly something, I guess.” Contingent upon the viewing was my sales pitch, and while most were warmly received, there were a few that certain friends would not touch. The ultimate line in the sand movie, from my experience, has been Hitoshi Matsumoto’s Symbol. For some, my description of “it’s about a man stuck in a room, with little penises all over the wall; whenever he touches one, an object appears, which he uses to attempt an escape” results in curiosity or discomfort. For the former group, it was a signifier that the person was open to something new, something fresh, something challenging. As for the latter group, not so much, as well as deeper indications of that person’s ideals, perhaps even identity.

As is often the case for those who wish to showcase weird and wondrous works in .mov, .mp4, or .mkv formats, there is an attempt to transcend the living room, and over time I would become acquainted with an individual who operates the Spectacle (1), a microcinema located in Williamsburg, once the capital of cool of Brooklyn until it became the fictional setting of assorted Hollywood predictions and the real-life home of Vice Media. But as is always the case for such places, there is always a lone holdout, where one can still find legitimate culture, and the bodega turned 30 seat capacity screening room was it. The spring of 2019 was when said individual gave me the opportunity to try my hand at guest programming for the venue; I had finally made the leap from friends’ apartments to an again former delicatessen now “theater”.

Then in the summer of 2019 came another opportunity at the Bushwick-based Wonderville (2). The self-described “art-cade” was the now permanent home for an indie game collective that had formed in the basement of Death By Audio, a DIY music venue that was forcibly shut down when their building was purchased by Vice Media (3). Death By Audio Arcade (4) became a nomadic series of unique, one of a kind indie arcade cabinets that made appearances across the city at events, and the desire for a new permanent space resulted in the establishment of a new kind of DIY venue that this time submitted all the proper, city-mandated permits. Essentially an uber-hipsterfied version of Barcade, you have the aforementioned video games, where one can also order drinks at the bar, as well as see live music at the stage. And like many watering holes, Friday nights are jam-packed, but not so much Monday nights.

As a member of Death By Audio Arcade I heeded the open call for something, anything that might generate a few sales of drinks on a dead night, hence my proposal to show a few of the films that had been featured in my monthly email list, known as the FORT90 FILM CLUB, but in person, specifically inside the middle of an arcade. The final in-person screening (up until a special anniversary event the following year) was towards the end of February 2020; the film was Hitoshi Matsumoto’s Symbol. It was warmly received, among friends who I had invited to the screening as well as strangers at the bar. It was also right before COVID-19 finally made its presence known and everything was shut down.

*https://twitter.com/ClubQuarantine/status/1238211583651741702*

By the end of March 2020, I had consumed both Tiger King and copious amounts of another televised program that seemingly everyone was watching as a way to pass time during the pandemic: 90 Day Fiance. I found myself invested in it as well, but simply by virtue of the fact that as an Asian-American, I knew several Caucasians from NYC who had attempted to find love by flying to Southeast Asia and wooing some country girl. But once the reality of COVID’s impact on reality television was presented, in the form of an offshoot in which cast members reacted to snarky social media posts that they had largely filmed in their homes, as a quick and dirty way to produce more content when traditional production was simply not doable, I lost interest. Around this time was also the first attempt among friends to augment virtual hangouts with movie watching. There were a variety of methods and associated platforms that were used, including Discord, Kosmi, Teleparty, Facebook Live, and of course Zoom. None were particularly successful, at least among those that I knew who tried using them. The baseline goal of said tech solutions was not to only watch a movie or television show as a group, but also to provide commentary, via the chat feature that was built in for each one. But often or not, most of the discourse was pertaining to technical problems and associated frustrations. But there was one solution that became known as being, white not quite perfect, nonetheless better than the rest: Twitch, a live-streaming production that was originally aimed at video gamers, yet could be used to showcase just videos.

March 30th, 2020 was Spectacle’s very first online screening, an effort they would dub SPECTACLE IN EXILE (5). These first several months of what would become a very active space was a time for learning and acclimation; literally everyone, both broadcasters and viewers, was trying to figure things out as they went along. There were no guides on how best to show stuff on Twitch, at least none that were entirely publicly available; right off the back, many knew that the entire endeavor was breaking all kinds of rules. This sense of secrecy, even paranoia, would remain constant for many months to come. Though some tried to do things on the up and up, specifically Spectacle. A thorough discussion of how microcinemas operate is beyond the scope of this essay, so let’s just say that many like organizations when attempting to showcase the work of a particular artist often try to get the consent and participation of the individual or individuals being highlighted (or at least that’s how it should be). Spectacle’s output on Twitch would ultimately pale in comparison to their seven-day-a-week schedule pre-pandemic, presumably due to how everything they showed virtually was with the cooperation of some other party.

Not long after Spectacle’s debut on Twitch came plans to similarly revive my own film screening series, the one on the behalf of Wonderville, which was called Cineville at Wonderville. Admittedly, I never got the consent of any of the creators of the films I showed at the bar, though attempts were made, in a similar half-hearted fashion that many microcinemas do. Basically, so long as you try to get permission, it’s all good. Myself and others assumed that things were simply more stringent on Twitch, a very public-facing entity. It is owned and operated by Amazon after all, so there came an expectation to be more official. In late April I was able to resume monthly Cineville screenings via Wonderville’s Twitch account (6), but only until that September, because I could only get so many directors to sign off on the endeavor. Many had been struggling as is to secure digital distribution deals and the idea of something being shown online, not only for free (there were no real means of selling tickets to a virtual screening, at least via the platform that was being employed) but with the specter of someone producing an illegal recording (which was an admittedly understandable fear).

Sometime before Spectacle’s debut on Twitch I was made aware, via a friend, of another Twitch channel that also showed movies. But unlike both Spectacle’s and my own efforts, this was truly an in-the-shadows effort, showing whatever it wanted. The name of the account was Quarantine Movie Club (7), and broadcasts on that end would be far and few. It would also pre-date much of the formalities that would be developed by later, more active and visible accounts. Yet in my mind, the Quarantine Movie Club would embody the ultimate embodiment of the post-COVID Twitch landscape, which has been a series of unregulated, pirate television-like broadcasts, often of things that won’t find via traditional programming, often for a host of economic or even political reasons. Even the significance of the profile’s icon, that of Lon Chaney Sr. as the Masque of the Red Death in The Phantom of the Opera cannot be ignored.

The identity of the creator of the Quarantine Movie Club has never been publicly disclosed, but I knew a few folks who were close, and who I assume were the ones responsible for introducing Symbol to this other Club (previous to the Cineville at Wonderville screening, it was one of the most warmly received selection from the aforementioned FORT90 FILM CLUB email blast). Again, Quarantine Movie Club would not operate for long, for only a little over a month, but others would soon follow its lead, even if they were unaware of any existence.

As more Twitch streams that played movies began registering on my radar, it occurred to me how the accompanying chat was a vital part of the viewing experience. When telling friends about watching movies on the internet, via a platform that was intended for video games, one of the regularly cited excuses as to why one would probably not enjoy the experience was the chat. Which I completely understood; most online interactions with total strangers are terrible, but I simply stated that one could turn it off. Something that even I have done on occasion.

Early on these conversations among strangers, who after seeing and remembering each other handles over & over across several streams would eventually become internet chums, would be laden with anxiety pertaining to COVID. Everyone was stuck at home, fearful of a virus that was ravaging the human populace, especially given how there was no vaccine at the time. Many had other concerns as well, due to the loss of income associated with the pandemic, which in turn led to an inability to pay their rent and other bills. There was also the sense of isolation that the quarantine created, and the chance to literally talk in the middle of a movie, as rude as that might be in the real world, was accepted and even encouraged in this new virtual setting. For many, it was their only means of connecting with the outside world, their lone form of regular human contact.

But as April turned into May, a new emotion began to sweep the chats, that of anger. Specifically anger over the injustices that were taking place across the United States of America. The murder of George Floyd on May 26th, along with the systematic racism that allowed Floyd’s death to happen in the first place, as well as countless over before and after, ignited a series of protests that took place on the streets and online as well. This vitriol towards the system was also fueled by the government’s abysmal response to COVID, along with other citizens who, due to a combination of privilege and naivete, did not take the pandemic seriously at all. Such COVID-deniers were, supposedly, easy to identify at first, since it was pervasive among devotees of Donald Trump. But as time would go on, it would become clear that the attitude was present among those on the other side of the political spectrum, those who already craved a return “to normal”. And as it would turn out, was a goal that was shaken to its very core by something as seemingly innocuous as watching movies all day long on the internet.

The summer of 2020 was when the current, post-COVID Twitch landscape became fully realized, and alongside the Quarantine Movie Club, the other (amongst three) entities that best represents that time and place was Racer Trash (8). The self-described radical editing collective was essentially a group of friends in Hollywood, mostly those who work in the film & television industry. The very first effort was, according to their profile in The Verge (9), essentially a birthday wish realized by one of its members: a re-edited version of The Wachowskis’s live-action adaptation of Speed Racer, one that had been vaporwave-d. The end result has two titles, Speed Vapor and Racerwave, and was screened via one of birthday boy’s personal Twitch accounts, belonging to one of the head racers, on (coincidentally enough) May 26.

Exactly two weeks after the debut of Speed Vapor/Racerwave, on June 9th (10), was the debut of a similarly produced effort, Heatwave (11). Like the first effort, another Hollywood movie, in this case, Michael Mann’s Heat, was divided into segments and the various racers (the term they chose, in lieu of editors) deconstructed their scenes and reconstructed them with a combination of vaporwave aesthetics plus assorted pop culture & subculture artifacts & pure nonsense. Yet there was something else present, another kind of vibe, a clear and present reflection of the thoughts and feelings the racers were experiencing at that very moment when it became all too apparent that the individuals and systems in place that are supposed to protect and service its citizens were, in fact, trying to kill them. One of the biggest frustrations among many who saw the protests, primarily those who were unwilling or unable to participate themselves, was the sense of helplessness, the desire to contribute but being unable to muster up any action that they felt would actually do so. To this day, Racer Trash’s Heatwave remains perhaps their most culturally significant work, one that clearly demonstrates individuals doing what they do best to contribute to the conversation, and in a legitimately meaningful manner, one that deserves serious analysis among historians for many generations to come.

As for the chats that accompanied Racer Trash screenings, as noted, the conversations to the sidebar in Twitch are more than just to the side, yet in this instance, they were indeed a core component. One that went through an evolution: in the beginning, it was primarily the racers themselves (there were always quite a few, we’re talking 20+ members) who would either compliment each other's efforts or joke about them, usually in combination. It truly felt like being a fly on the wall, actually more like sitting towards the end of the bar that’s frequented by a group of tight friends, and as more viewers tuned in, many of these in-jokes would become slang that was specific to racer trash chats. Certain other gatherings for other Twitch streams would be similar, yet none other approached the sense of community that was felt in the one for Racer Trash.

*https://www.instagram.com/p/B_GUSnKH2Cq/*

Towards the end of July 2020, an acquaintance I made through the Racer Trash chat informed me of a thing that was happening on July 25-26: Virtual SandlerCon (12). It would be a 24 hour long festival of assorted Adam Sandler movies, but more importantly was my introduction to the third and final Twitch account that has forever changed my relationship with media, specifically what I consume and how: Moviepassed (13). Unlike Racer Trash, though much like the Quarantine Movie Club, not a whole lot is known about Moviepassed. Though, unlike the Quarantine Movie Club, Moviepassed was definitely a far more well-known identity, thanks to its prolific output.

The Quarantine Movie Club played a movie every once in a while, with each steam lasting about two hours, with less than a dozen or so in total. racer trash’s output was gargantuan in comparison, especially towards the end, in which there was enough material to support 6 or so hour-long broadcasts, but these were every once in a while as well, a few times across a month. But Moviepassed would have 12 or so hour-long broadcasts, each following a certain theme, seven days a week, and for over a year.

From what I have been able to piece together about Moviepassed: its first broadcast was back in April 2020, when others were taking their first step. Multiple individuals were behind the stream, though no one ever disclosed public information such as their real names. There were also indications that those involved operated microcinemas or whatever equivalent in LA, but again there was a sense of secretary, one necessitated by professional obligations. In stark contrast is how every racer in Racer Trash openly flaunted their association, often using their work as part of their professional portfolio.

As for that second character train that would become inherent to these streams, one that Moviepassed best personifies, it’s how watching movies all day and all night long on Twitch became just that: you would watch movies all day and all night long on Twitch. Speaking as a film connoisseur, I considered myself someone who watched a lot of films pre-pandemic, but during the pandemic, thanks to Moviepassed, it is no exaggeration to say that I watched close to 1,000 movies during the stream’s existence, which again is less than 12 months. Again, part of the process was watching movies, lots of movies, with strangers that became not so much, as time would pass by. Oftentimes something in a film would trigger a memory or just some random anecdote; there was sharing, sometimes oversharing, of personal information, everything from daily occurrences to life histories. This was in large part due to the programming; whomever at the wheel of Moviepassed had impeccable tastes, and not everything shown was everyone’s cup of tea, but viewers recognized the effort and importance to push buttons. Often by seeing tales of trials and tribulations, be it fictional or documentary. As has been the case for literally every single person on this planet, the COVID-19 pandemic has been a traumatic experience for me, one that perhaps necessitated therapy, but thanks to this country’s abysmal healthcare, I lacked the resources and had to seek it elsewhere. For me, it was about 1,000 movies in less than 12 months, a number that seems so absurd that I feel the need to repeat it to myself.

What does seeing so many movies in such a concentrated timeframe equate to as a film viewer? Basically, a point of no return. Because after one has been spoiled with night after night of expertly curated film programming that encompasses the wide breadth of the cinematic languages, often drawn from forgotten times and spoken by marginalized voices, it is impossible to muster any enthusiasm from whatever Marvel or Disney has inserted into theaters that weekend. As previously noted, it was a hard sell convincing certain friends to give the whole Twitch movie landscape a shot, but it soon became clear that there was a palatable annoyance with this alternative ecosystem of content acquisition and consumption. Primarily those who felt that it was a struggle paying for a long list of streaming apps, along with the anxiety that comes with finding “something good” to watch; perhaps it would be of little shock that those might be annoyed who effortlessly consumes so much more content, which is also of higher quality, and at zero cost?

These are some of the individuals who wish for a “return for normal” and those who have chosen to forever reject the movie-going experience and other traditional forms of content acquisition are a serious threat. There are two now-former friends who come to mind, who took grave offense to my Twitch recommendations. In both instances, it was in relation to one of my favorite racer trash productions; as the title would imply, Vapor Mario is their take on the live-action Super Mario Bros movie (14). One person immediately tuned out after a very quick yet nonetheless grating surprise appearance by Bernie Sanders. The other person hung in there for a while longer but was positively disgusted when a segment heavily criticized my generation’s obsession with our childhoods, along with the gross fetishization of Asian cultures as it pertains to certain pop-cultural artifacts, in the name of nostalgia.

It would appear that many viewed the Racer Trash motto, the somewhat stated in jest “attack and dethrone” cinema, as a serious threat. And here are many sad things about COVID, but for me, it is how it represented an opportunity to hit a massive reset button, to try something new and different, maybe even better. Yet many resisted this opportunity for change, and viewed every attempt bu others, large and small, with utter contempt. Such as relatively benign actions, such as the reconsideration of how one simply accesses movies, which includes the realization that one doesn’t have to pay near $20 to see whatever major IP holders have determined as being culturally relevant, nor tolerate all the annoyances that one must endure, like boorish behavior from other theatergoers, simply for the sake of being able to participate in “the conversation.” But the risks inherent to transformation, specifically the potential loss of familiarity, even for the sake of the greater good, is just too much for most to handle. Which to varying degrees is why many of the streams in this essay no longer operate.

*Screencap of Homoti, taken during the https://www.twitch.tv/moviepassed’s broadcast, 5/23/21 at 12:19AM EST*

Again, Quarantine Movie Club didn’t last more than a month, and for reasons that have not been publicly disclosed. Not that anyone other than a self-professed internet media historian would care. Spectacle would also pull the plug on their Twitch account, around September of 2020, but eventually migrate to a separate streaming solution (15). According to someone during a test drive of this dedicated site, a viewer had weaponized the feature in which someone could report a stream that is breaking the rules. This is supposed to be content that showcases nudity, but to be honest, any film that is shown via Twitch, unless it is without the consent of the rights holder, is technically breaking the rules. Having a channel reported results in a temporary suspension, and after a few have been racked up, the account as a whole is suspended. I did not enquire if Spectacles had run out of strikes or were tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Moviepassed had its final regular broadcast on May 23, 2021 (16). Again, no reason was stated, but it being such a well-known entity meant that way more were left questioning why. But no answers were given, nor none really necessary one supposes. By this point, there was a COVID vaccine, and the tenuous amount of aid had been exhausted. It was assumed that, with things opening back up, those behind the scenes had to get back to work, regardless of any personal feelings on the matter. But there was also a rebranding of sorts, from Moviepassed to Hollyw00dentertainment (17), and with it a pivot to in-person screenings (18). Alas, something unfortunate that happened along the way, towards this march towards legitimacy was the erasure of all the daily schedules that were posted on Moviepassed/Hollyw00dertantment’s Instagram account, which is how everyone kept abreast of what was playing. Such a loss of such valuable information is frankly devastating, yet not entirely shocking either.

Racer Trash broke up in January 2022. The final feature-length re-edit was on November 13, 2022, which was of David Lynch’s Blue Velvet, dubbed #0000FF velvet (19). It was included in the final of four mammoth retrospective screenings, which took place on January 29, 2022 (20). The chat had evolved even further, since the early days; towards the end, it was populated by diehards that obsessed over every single detail in every single segment. By this point, most of the editors who hung out in the chat were long gone, with the inside baseball replaced with intense analysis. Though much of the racer talk was still present. It was a closing of a chapter, and many in attendance were undeniably devastated; Racer Trash (along with other streams and accompanying hats) had become a surrogate family, a support structure, during a pandemic that never truly ended. But as they say, all good things, etc. Besides, anyone who wished to relieve the past could do so by checking out the Racer Trash section of the Internet Archive, though admittedly it’s not quite the same without the chat. And not surprisingly, many former members of Racer Trash have gone on to other projects. Thus far as of this writing, we have seen a very Racer Trash-like reconstruction of The Wachowskis’s The Matrix (21) and a faux film festival centered on Taco Bell (22).

As for myself, once I ran out of movies to show via Wonderville’s Twitch stream that I had gotten the okay for from the filmmakers, in October of 2020 I went the Moviepassed route and began showing movies sans that conformed to a specific theme. Cineville at Wonderville was also dropped, and the online version of the FORT90 FILM CLUB took its place. Eventually, all the weird technical quirks I experienced when first trying to Twitch stream had been ironed out, thanks to valuable intel shared by others who were streaming. The fact that I was given more powerful hardware, specifically the MacBook Pro that belonged to the Quarantine Movie Club definitely helped. For anyone curious, I did not have the chance to compare the version of Symbol that it played was identical to the copy that I had distributed. The computer was given to me with its contents entirely wiped.

In late August of 2021 was my first in-person screening, to celebrate the 2nd anniversary of Cineville at Wonderville/the FORT90 FILM CLUB (23). At this point, I felt comfortable enough to re-integrate into everyday society, with precautions in place of course. I screened 7+ hours of racer trash (I was lucky enough to be given carte blanche as to what would be shown) both online and at the bar. Had my strongest numbers online that night, to date, whereas I was a bit disappointed by the turnout IRL. Basically, Racer Trash was not that well known, outside of Twitch. Oh, also, the Delta variant of COVID had just arrived and was cited by every friend who had RSVP’d but had to cancel. I completely understood their reservation.

About a month ago, as of this writing, I was a guest programmer once again for SickoVision (24). In many ways, it’s the spiritual successor to Moviepassed. While only live a few times a week, as opposed to all seven days, it nonetheless has lengthy 12+ hour-long line-ups of films that are built around a certain theme, far more ambitious than my efforts. But another key difference is how public-facing the individuals are behind the scenes; it’s primarily driven by Australian-based cartoonist Grant Ionatán (25). Basically, everyone who guest programs are Moviepassed ex-pats, many of whom I have more regular contact with than actual friends, largely due to varying degrees of challenges that COVID has created, either physical or philosophical.

At around 4 AM my time, while the Russian dashcam documentary The Road Movie was playing, I got a rather urgent message from Grant’s collaborator; it was to alert me that someone who works for Twitch was lurking in the chat. There was concern that this individual was snooping and was going to report the channel, thus shutting everything down. I know I sound like a jerk, but I did have to once again repeat my long-standing objection to Twitch accounts that showcase pirated/bootleg content and accept subs, which in a roundabout way is a form of monetary compensation (in the end, folks figured a way to sell “tickets” on Twitch after all), as someone with a freshly acquired MSLIS would also feel obligated to do. But I also theorized that perhaps it’s someone who wants to help broadcasters such as us? Maybe the current Twitch movie landscape will endure, even after COVID has finally been beaten, thanks to support from those who run the platform? That would be nice.

But I also wouldn’t be surprised if it all went away, the very next morning. Because that’s the other big lesson I’ve learned from the pandemic, as have others: nothing lasts forever.

FOOTNOTES

1. https://www.spectacletheater.com/

2. https://www.wonderville.nyc/

3. https://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/01/movies/goodnight-brooklyn-review-the-story-of-death-by-audio.html

4. https://www.deathbyaudioarcade.com/

5. https://twitter.com/SpectacleNYC/status/1244728130230779910

6. https://www.wonderville.nyc/events/cineville-for-the-plasma

7. https://www.twitch.tv/quarantinemovieclub

8. https://racertrash.com/

9. https://www.theverge.com/22555946/racer-trash-punk-twitch-film-collective

10. https://archive.org/details/racerwave

11. https://archive.org/details/heatwave_20211124