Last weekend, I stumbled home from seeing Ballast at New York’s Film Forum, stunned at its contemplative regard for human-sized people working out their human-sized problems. Gorgeous. Some great films leave you a staggering drunk; Ballast is one of those greats that leave you hobbled but stone sober, lucid, hearing through walls. So when I plopped down on my bunk that night, you can imagine how rattled I was to hear Dennis Quaid getting keelhauled by automobile across a strip mall. That’s what it sounded like, anyway. There were about fifteen minutes of squalling tires, shrieks, Mr. Quaid growling incomprehensible orders, glass shattering, curses in several languages, metallic sobbing/slapping/ripping noises.

The ruckus was coming from the next bed, from Salaam’s portable DVD player. He was half-awake, his leg dangling from the top bunk, head nodding then springing up at the more violent eruptions. I said, “Yo, Salaam, what’s that you watching, Innerspace?” Salaam perked up. “Nah. What the fuck is Innerspace?”

“Dennis Quaid shrinks down and goes inside Rick Moranis—no, Martin Short.”

“Goes inside—what? You be watching some weird shit, man. Nah, this is Vantage Point.”

“Oh, yeah, right.”

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