This Is the Perfect Time of Twelvemonth to Rewatch Whit Stillman'southward Metropolitan

Three UHBs on a couch. Photograph: New Line Cinema/The Criterion Collection

In college, I was an RA at NYU'southward nerdiest dorm, an easy job fabricated even easier past the fact that my residents spent all their fourth dimension watching television. One unforeseen attribute of the gig, though, was holiday duty: Over winter break, RAs had to spend a few three-day shifts back at their dorms, alone, merely in case annihilation happened. Nothing ever happened; no one was at that place. Wandering the hallways on rounds was the closest I have ever felt to beingness in The Shining.

With zero to exercise and no i to talk to, I took to roaming the streets, and discovered something wonderful: Not only were the dorms empty, the unabridged metropolis was, besides. By my estimation, information technology was as if a solid 2-thirds of the population of Manhattan had only disappeared, Leftovers style. There were no lines, no crowds, and the sidewalks felt like they were l feet wide. Where once were throngs of commuters, now there were only polite squadrons of German tourists. It was similar existence in a pocket-size boondocks, except that nobody knew your name. This was not real life; information technology was a dream globe.

This version of the city doesn't pop up onscreen much — virtually New York Christmas movies are either about the anticipation of the season, or a human writing letters to Love, Time, and Death — merely by coincidence, ane of the 2 DVDs I bought to pass the time turned out to exist the perfect accompaniment. The Criterion cover of Whit Stillman's Metropolitan is an carving that wouldn't be out of identify on a Fitzgerald paperback, and the 1990 pic itself shares this same sense of taking identify in a vanished world. Abreast the vague feeling that the characters are living through the decline of the old aristocracy — a vibe that could have placed the film at any point in the post-war era — it'south never quite clear in which decade the film is set up.

But in some other sense, the timing is incredibly specific: Metropolitan is a winter-suspension film. Its characters — nine rich young people from the Upper East Side, and one slightly less rich immature person from the Upper West Side — have returned to the city for debutante season; about of the moving picture takes place at the after-parties of various balls, where they lounge effectually in tuxedos and gowns, gossiping, playing cards, and discussing Jane Austen. The immense privilege of these urban haute-bourgeoisie (UHBs, in one memorable phrasing) means they have no real responsibilities, and, until the very end, most of their debates about ethics and morals take identify on a firmly theoretical level. They spend near of the moving picture in a sense of stasis, waiting for something to happen. You lot don't have to have a trust fund to chronicle to that part of winter, the liminal menstruum between unwrapping presents and returning to normal life.

And thanks to the film'south minuscule budget, Stillman even gets the atmosphere of empty holidays New York right. In that location are no crowd scenes — he could hardly beget costumes (most were donated), much less extras. Landmarks like the Plaza are seen just in brief establishing shots, filmed quickly from the sidewalk. The vast majority of scenes take place in a few revolving living rooms, always at dark (the lack of sunlight is some other matter the film gets correct), which but adds to the film'due south insularity: At times it seems similar Metropolitan's New York has a population of 100 people, max.

This is a very specific awareness, I know, but it's ane that I treasure dearly. You can keep your Miracle on 34th Streets and your Elfs. For me, only Metropolitan tin capture the strange magic of New York after Christmas — the real most wonderful time of the twelvemonth.

You Should Rewatch Whit Stillman'south Metropolitan