I remember how I felt when I saw David Gordon Green’s All The Real Girls in theaters. At that point in my life, I was quite young, and I’d watch anything at the only arthouse theater in my town. Movies would pop up there, screen for a week, and vanish forever. I remember very little of the film itself, but there are remnants of the visuals left in my synapses; the warm organic closeness, and I recall my reactions. I know I was captivated, but I knew nothing massive was happening. I felt I should be bored, but I wasn’t.
