DC Film Society: Adam's Rib February 2023

Jim Shippey

In the late 90s, some friends of mine who knew I loved film started asking me “Have you met Jim Shippey?” and then telling me “You really ought to meet Jim.” They explained that he was a film geek like me, and they thought we would hit it off. Eventually we did meet at a party and started talking. Sure enough, we bonded quickly over our shared love of movies and became friends.

Jim’s tastes ran very different than mine. I was more mainstream, and he was more offbeat. He loved horror films and I generally did not. Jim did not share my reverence for classic directors. While I fumed that Gus Van Sant would dare to remake Hitchcock’s Psycho, Jim saw the new film right away. Steven Spielberg shaped the way I saw film as a medium, but Jim considered him milquetoast and overrated.

David Cronenberg was Jim’s filmmaker. When I admitted that I had never seen any of Cronenberg’s films, Jim did not bother hiding his disgust. He had me come over the following weekend and showed me five Cronenberg films in a row: The Brood, Scanners, Videodrome, Dead Ringers and Crash. As an aside, while I have since come to appreciate Cronenberg’s work, no one should ever see that many of his movies in one day. That I made it to work the next week was a minor miracle. Jim was fascinated with how Cronenberg evoked fear and dread. While Cronenberg would often, especially in those early days, use supernatural forces or mutating body parts in his stories, it was almost always to explore how little people understood about their own darkness. Jim saw every film Cronenberg ever made.

Showing me Cronenberg was just one of many ways Jim broadened my film world. Jim was the first one to clue me into Philip Seymour Hoffman. He showed me the original Planet of the Apes. Through him, I discovered below-the-radar or cult directors such as Todd Solondz and John Waters. In turn, I encouraged him to come with me to the Toronto International Film Festival in 2002. We didn’t see many of the same films, but we both had a blast with the crazed movies and the crazed people at the Midnight Madness series.

When Jim and I met, I was just starting to grow involved with the DC Film Society, and I was thrilled that he joined me. He quickly made friends and became part of DCFS leadership. Jim played an essential role with screenings, our trailer programs, and especially our annual Oscars parties at the Arlington Cinema and Drafthouse. He would always have the same seat near the back, working with Raiford Gaffney on the Predict-the-Winners ballots.

In 2000, my current living situation fell apart. Jim’s roommates happened to leave, and he welcomed me in. I never thought I’d room with anyone messier than me or who had more DVDs. We’d talk, eat (Jim was a gourmet-level cook) and, of course, watch many, many movies. In 2001, when I told Jim I was going to write a regular column for the DCFS website, he immediately told me to call it “Adam’s Rib.”

Jim had other passions outside the cinema. He was from Tampa, Florida, born and raised, and always stayed true to the city. Jim’s perseverance as a die-hard Tampa Bay Buccaneers fan wasn’t easy. For much of his life, the Bucs served as the NFL’s laughingstock. By the time we met, coach Tony Dungy and players such as Warren Sapp, Derrick Brooks, and John Lynch had turned the team around. Unfortunately, while the Bucs grew better, my Washington then-Redskins deteriorated. So, I would accompany Jim to the sports bars, where he could see the Bucs game and tried to share in his fun as much as I could. The Bucs regularly made the playoffs only to lose in often-heartbreaking fashion. Then came the 2002 NFC title game against the Eagles, where Ronde Barber’s pick-six clinched the team’s first-ever Super Bowl appearance. Jim usually stayed on an even keel, but not that day. He celebrated with me, with other friends, with strangers in the bar and anyone in his vicinity. For the Super Bowl itself, he understandably went back to Tampa. I stayed at home and had friends over. When the Bucs sealed the victory, I got a call from Tampa. I could barely hear Jim amongst the pandemonium there, but his exhilaration did not need words.

Still, movies remained our primary bond. A few times a year we curated and hosted our Underexposed Film Festival (UXFF). Jim and I each picked out two films that we did not believe garnered the recognition they deserved. From mid-afternoon until well past midnight, we would show these films to friends, with each of us giving brief introductions for our selections. Through Jim’s picks, UXFFs offered my first time seeing Donnie Darko, Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars and Last Night. Jim took special pride in featuring Chuck and Buck, an early film from Mike White, today best known for “The White Lotus.” He also showed one of Todd Solondz’s most audacious films, Happiness. My choices included Eve’s Bayou, Quiz Show, The Conversation and Dark City. Some of our heartier friends came for all four films, while others caught one or two. The UXFFs were the high point of our bond – food, friends and movies. We both got so much joy from sharing these films and expanding, even if only a little bit, people’s cinematic horizons.

Gradually, Jim and I spent less time together, and I’m not sure why. By 2004, I felt I was ready to have a place of my own and moved to a one-bedroom apartment in the same building. I thought we would still stay in close touch, but that didn’t happen. Eventually, he moved out of the building, and I saw even less of him. We’d catch up at a DCFS event, but that was about it. I’ve wondered about who was more at fault for us losing contact, although in the end, it doesn’t matter.

Eventually, I’d heard he moved to Tampa, which made sense. Then, after several more years he came back to the DC area. I reached out more often, but still not as much as I should. Jim was looking for work and had clearly fallen on some hard times. He gradually got back on his feet. When Crimes of the Future, David Cronenberg’s first new film in eight years, hit theaters last summer, I asked if he’d want to see it together. He did, and for a few hours that afternoon it was just like old times, seeing a movie and talking about it. Jim told me where he thought the film fit in with Cronenberg’s other work. I dropped him off and we’d promised we’d do it again soon. Of course, we never did.

Last month, I heard from Karrye Braxton, a mutual friend, that Jim was very sick and was an inpatient at a local hospital. He couldn’t talk and at the time I couldn’t visit due to a local COVID spike. After a couple of weeks, I was finally allowed to visit. Karrye told me that Jim had coded a couple of days prior, but I was not prepared to see him unconscious with a breathing tube and connected to so many machines. The doctor disabused me of the faint hope that he might recover, telling me he had lost too much brain activity. A few days later, Karrye informed me that Jim had passed. He was only 57.

Given how much time had passed since we were in close contact, I felt that Jim’s death wouldn’t hit me that hard. I was wrong. Suddenly, memories flooded me, some of which I didn’t even know I had. A few weeks before Martin Wooster, another friend and DCFS stalwart, was tragically killed in a traffic accident. The collective loss at times seemed overwhelming. I’d heard that as you get older your world grows smaller, but no one told me it would happen this fast.

Like me, Jim was friends with local film critics Bill Henry and Joe Barber. Jim and I would go to Borders, first in Columbia and then Silver Spring for Bill and Joe’s “Moviewise with the Movie Guys” talks. We were also regulars when Bill and Joe ran the Sunday morning movie club at the Cinema Arts Theater in Fairfax. Afterwards, we usually all went out for a meal. The four of us would talk not only about movies, but also football, baseball, politics and whatever else was on our minds. Now, it’s just me left from the foursome. Bill, Joe, and Jim are all gone. That’s not fair, but it’s reality.

There’s still much I didn’t know about Jim. He didn’t talk much about his family or how he grew up. Perhaps that was too painful for him, or maybe he had other reasons. We were only close friends for 6-7 years, but we shared something. Perhaps the sadness that surprised me so much shows that what we shared meant more and lasted longer than I ever thought it would. I’ll never know if he felt that way too, but I sure hope he did.

Adam Spector
February 1, 2023