Yael, a Leo-Cat purring, edges toward the marquee, screaming, “bordello chic.” She recites the producer, writer, cast, and her idol, Gérard Depardieu, as the vintage cinema entrance reveals itself from the avenue’s flush buildings. We near an alcove of tall posters displaying foreign stars and upcoming attractions, behind glazed wood doors wrapping the U-shaped gap. Yael lags as I step up to the elderly woman with a fatigued face behind the central kiosk glass. Without a cue, I request two tickets for “Manon Des Sources,” (Manon Of The Spring) the French title resonating in my mind. Yael moves toward the right deep corner’s paired sentinel doors, feline quiet. I allow her to push open the door, catching the spring-back leaf behind her. We enter the art déco obscurity of the theater, comical rows of scattered carton cutouts — heads and shoulders of the audience. My ears sensitive to the lingering sound waves of the odd acoustic absorption, while Yael finds a middle row, to a seat ...
