Only now can it be told…

It happened at least a year and a half ago, and possibly longer than that. I was chatting with the renowned director-writer Tony Gilroy (Michael Clayton, Duplicity, Andor, Beirut) inside the AMC Lincoln Square IMAX theatre. It was prior to a hot-shot invitational screening, and we were standing next to our seats and shooting the usual shit.

After a few pleasantries Gilroy sat down and I turned to face the huge screen, and I somehow tipped over a bit, and then quickly tried regain my balance…nope. Perhaps my heavy leather computer bag was a factor, but the IMAX theatre seats are built upon a very steep grade — something close to 45 degrees — and so I tumbled forward and fell like a crash test dummy upon the row of seats in front of me.

Although it was no big deal in terms of bruisings or physical injury, I felt slightly embarassed because, you know, who loses his fucking balance and falls over a row of seats just before the start of an IMAX screening with a gathering of hot-shot journalists sitting and standing around nearby? I was Chevy Chase doing a Gerald R. Ford.

But you know what? Gilroy saw everything and didn’t say a word. Didn’t even raise an eyebrow. He knew it was a galumphy thing to have done but he maintained his poker face and kept his cool, and in so doing he kept mine.

Another friend might have shouted “oh my God…Jeff! Jeff! Are you okay?”, and in so doing would have prompted others to take notice or ask what had happened, and the next day it might have been a topic of derision and belittlement on the Six O’Clock News. But the taciturn and unshakable Gilroy said zip and nobody else did either (no yelps or “oops!”), and our lives went on as if nothing had happened.