Decasia: the only valid argument on behalf of “death of cinema,” even though it more strongly resembles a resurrection. Kids kicking hair. The glorification of crumbling social standing in Blonde Venus, reaching its climax at the bar in what might be the most fussily angular set I’ve ever seen. Disco dance sequences with flash-bulb, freeze-frame beatitude. Richard Gere falling into push-ups, wearing nothing but a jock strap in Looking for Mr. Goodbar. Snap judgments, and retracting them. The amphibiousness texture of Cyclo. Midnight dancing at mom’s house in Love Streams. The way words seem to weave around Gena Rowlands’ teeth before finally emerging, seeming very different than intended. Charles Durning’s epic battle with his own thighs in To Be or Not to Be. Herbie Hancock soundtracks. The hair-metal vampire in The Lost Boys who quips “Bottoms up, man,” snaps his fingers, and then jumps off a bridge, yowling like a wounded bobcat.

