‘The ’59 Godard? Excellent Choice’

The L.A. school of impressionism is way over my head. I’m not referring to modern Monets. I’m talking about the local manner by which one, through means of power, possessions and frantic name-dropping, establishes one’s place in the cosmos. I impress, therefore I am.

Forget it. If valets, maitre d’s and fashion mavens snicker as I pass, so be it. There is only one person in this town whom I want to impress, one person whose approval I seek, who can make or break my day with a smile or a shrug. And that’s the guy at my video store.

I am a card-carrying member of Jerry’s Video Rerun in Los Feliz. I love it there. There are lots and lots of videos arranged in an order that makes sense--drama, comedy, by actor or director--not in some impenetrable attempt to deconstruct human nature. Jerry and his staff don’t get overly excited about new releases--they simply stack them on a shelf near the door. They don’t sell microwave popcorn or Twizzlers. They don’t take you out of the computer if you don’t rent a movie for three months--they don’t have a computer. They allow pets.

Jerry’s is a one-product establishment (although there are some cool movie posters halfheartedly displayed in front) and that product is movies. Jerry Neeley is a roundish, smiling guy with glasses, a Greek sailor’s cap and red-silver stubble on his chin. John Sullivan, the clerk there most evenings, is a skinnier, smiling guy with a droopy mustache and silver-silver hair. They both have a penchant for flannel, even in August, and they both know more about moving pictures than all the Warner brothers put together. Which is why I quiver a bit whenever I slide my selection across the counter; silence is deadly, reserved for the likes of “The Truth About Cats & Dogs.’ An “ah, yes,’ is acceptable, but what I seek is the forefinger tap on the title, followed by “great movie.’ You have chosen well, Grasshopper.

Sometimes I stop in even if I don’t want a video. I sidestep along the grimy white tiles through the chockablock aisles, soaking up the high-voltage fluorescent light, listening to them talk about movies. They have their acolytes--young hip screenwriters, actors, musicians--all clad in Army surplus or neon-striped midriffs. The young pilgrims smudge the glass counters with elbows and palms, squint through bangs and cat’s-eye frames. They ask about Buster Keaton, the favored camera angles of Greta Garbo, the merits of “Reds,’ the meaning of life.

Not that John and Jerry are garrulous; they are quiet guys, serene in their wisdom. They look up when you enter, nod perhaps; they don’t yell your name or light up with preternatural salesclerk perkiness that wilts as soon as a substantive question about the merchandise is asked. It took two months before either spoke to me--Jerry asked my dog’s name. When I said Asta, they both smiled, approvingly, beatifically. Benediction, at last.