Bash Compactor: 100-Percent Pure Adrenaline

“Look at it! It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, man! Let me go out there and let me get one wave,” Patrick Swayze said during the final moments of Point Break—that film being, of course, Kathryn Bigelow’s masterpiece about a gang of surfing bank robbers.

Thanks to that iconic movie (as well as some warmly received recent work), Bigelow was honored last week at MoMA’s third annual Film Benefit.

I was sent to cover the afterparty and knew that, like Point Break hero Johnny Utah, I’d be out of my element. Luckily, like Utah, I’m one radical son of bitch.

In the center of the museum’s allwhite lobby a well-stocked bar was open and stationed beside it was an even more impressive dessert station. Chocolate ganache with gooseberries, s’mores, passion fruit panna cotta and lemon crème brûlée sandwiches were laid out beside a small bar featuring lavender-, chocolate-, coffee- and nut-flavored milk. Stay focused, I told myself.

Sucking down my third panna cotta, I looked at the crowd. It was mostly older guys in dark suits, with a few scruffy young men in sweaters dispersed throughout. My guess was that the suits were directors and producers and the scruffy dudes actors. To be sure, I decided to approach a few with a simple inquiry: “What’s your favorite film so far this year?” I spotted a young blond guy working a Michael Pitt thing, and his date, who looked like a young Martha Plimpton. Actors, I was sure.

“My favorite movie was A Prophet. It’s about this French-Algerian Muslim guy that’s in prison,” said Megan Marin, a jewelry designer and artist. I was way off.

Across the room, a tall man in dark glasses couldn’t have looked more like a producer. I went right at him.

“I am a big fan of film” he exclaimed.

“I am a big fan of Saw, but I decided this one is the last Saw that I am going to see.” He turned out to be Bill Listbeth, who told me that he was in fact a hedgefunder.

Luckily it wasn’t long before Bigelow appeared to introduce the entertainment,

Canadian band Metric, which played a four-song acoustic set, after which singer Emily Haines announced, “I’m just happy I got to look at Jodie Foster.”

I was tired of approaching people— and nibbling at another panna cotta—when I decided it was time to leave. I walked outside and took out a cigarette; I smoked slowly, waiting for something to happen. As I did this, a crowd formed outside the entrance—a crowd that looked like it collectively logged a significant number of hours playing World of Warcraft.

That’s when the doors swung open and the hairy scrum lunged: Jodie Foster was walking toward the street surrounded by security.

“Jodie, Jodie!” they shouted, thrusting pictures of her at her. This was it, my big shot at a good quote. As Foster signed a couple of pictures, annoyed, her security tried gently to push people away. I had moved closer and then, for one split second, looked into her eyes. I saw her soul in that moment and knew that Jodie Foster was just like me: tired and full of nut milk. She had nothing left to give.

Screw it, I thought. I’m Swayze.