![]() ![]() When we left the theater, he seemed satisfied, though maybe a little indifferent, neither impressed nor underwhelmed. I’d often considered how our family’s history should be presented to the world. I’d already spent too much time in classrooms picking apart diaspora narratives. ![]() ![]() Hypothetically, all the necessary elements were assembled, but no film could ever meet my expectations for this story. There were big name actors (Oscar Isaac! Christian Bale!), a respected director (Terry George), and a $100 million budget personally financed by Armenian American former-MGM Studios Inc. Neither of us are big moviegoers but we needed to share this, a long withheld recognition enormous before us, our seats shaking in the blare of surround sound. I had made the train ride home from Chicago specifically to see this film with my dad. Half-full, too loud, and littered with popcorn, the theater felt overly familiar-the same complex where my parents had dropped me off to meet friends or go on dates before I got my driver’s license-my childhood theater, a staple of the Ann Arbor neighborhood where I grew up. Three days before Armenian Genocide Remembrance Day in 2017, I requested the afternoon off to attend an opening night showing of The Promise with my father. ![]()
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