Read the full essay as part of MUBI’s “Ad Infinitum,” the fall 2025 edition of the Notebook Insert.
The surprise flew Delta. My family was cruising at 30,000 feet, and as far as I knew, things were perfectly fine: clear skies, everyone munching on Sunchips and Biscoff wafers, easygoing Miami days ahead of us. I’d ordered a Mr. & Mrs. T Original Bloody Mary Mix, hold the booze (before noon, it tastes sharp and healthy while reminding me of good times to come), and settled into my paperwork—an endless heap of grants, screenplays, student grading, and emails. I’m a so-called filmmaker, but I’ve got a family, and I’ve gotta make that paper.
Suddenly, my seven year-old daughter screamed bloody murder. She was clinging to my wife like she’d been touched by evil. She’d seen something horrible. I quickly understood it was a movie—someone else’s movie flashing on a screen angled between the seats with a direct line into her soul. There was a beaten and bruised woman locked in a hospital room getting eviscerated by a grinning demon. A slack-jawed Gen-Zer watched this morning programming, his temples pinched by expensive Bowers & Wilkins Px7 S3 Wireless Over-Ear Noise-Canceling Headphones that rose and fell with every impassive munch of his complimentary Cheez-Its while human entrails splattered onscreen.
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