America's Most Sacred Space
Blue Collar (1978), Directed by Paul Schrader
My Initial Curiosities
I do not find the majority of American mythos to be grand—the mountains and valleys promised often hide scaffolding, a curated experience meant to force emotion. I regularly ask myself what Americana is to me—which legends do I subscribe to, which do I find precious and individual to our identity? What do I find religious about this country—which figures or sights bring me to my knees, overwhelmed by the divinity of their existence? As I read and watch and engage with American culture, sifting through years of soot-covered cowboys and yearning hitchhikers, one prominent American staple sticks out to me: the diner.
I’m from New Jersey, the self-proclaimed diner capital of the world. My family was never religious, but if we were, I believe our place of worship would be the local diner. A diner rests in limbo between fast food and fine dining, a place for the majority of middle-class families to waste time and allow their kids to sling applesauce at each other. Every diner is a little scuzzy—vintage Coca-Cola adverts and photos of Elvis adorn the walls, faded due to years of sunbathing. The floors are tiled and cracked, the counters a sickly color, and the menus are peeling around the corners. The windows have a layer of grime—if you look through the speckles of dirt, you can critique the outfits of patrons, guffawing at the poor souls who wear shorts in the winter. The selection is predictable; fries, grilled cheese, milkshakes, and the mystery soup of the day. No matter where you go in America, a diner will be tucked into the corner of town, bright neon signs painting your skin an unnatural pink.
Diners are my favorite place to go in America, as I venture across its plains—I find them to be grounding. To me, they tie each region together—the sun may rise and set at various times around the country, but we all have similar places we collect to find peace. We all seek out these venues, having precious conversations in the hazy hours of the night, feeling that life could not be more content. As our landscapes change, small towns eroding and losing parts of their charm, diners remain consistent. The diner is the last sacred part of the American mythos, a preservation of our years of pop culture obsession and promises of affordable and unending adventure.
My interest in frequenting diners has bled into my adoration of cinema—I’ve found myself increasingly more curious about American films and their use of the diner. As a space of refuge, the diner allows for intimate moments in characters’ lives. Confessions and connections occur in the diner, forcing people to look each other in the eye and slow down. Moreso, the framing of the scene aids in accentuating the American image—the landscape outside or within the diner solidifies its grandeur. For the sake of brevity, I’ve tasked myself in choosing four films and one TV show featuring a diner. I selected a few of my favorites across several decades, looking at the progression of diners in American media.
Detour (1945), Directed by Edgar G. Ulmer
Detour is a series of cardboard sets and plastic props, a film held together by a wish and prayer. It is a relic of classic Hollywood, when double features were common at cinemas and the production of B-Films was ordinary. Detour begins and ends in a Nevada diner—the film is a flashback, the haunting memory of a man who cannot outrun his destitution. As pictured above, Al Roberts, the brooding narrator, sits obscured by shadows. He stares ahead, refusing to look at the majority of the diner. In the back, glowing mockingly, is the record player. It clicks on, and a song permeates the air, one that Roberts’s ex-girlfriend used to sing on the East Coast. Roberts is agonized by the selection, and the ignorance of the customer who chose it—he cannot stand the thoughtlessness of a stranger. The diner in Detour is ghastly—it feels like purgatory, a place for aimless spirits to await their judgment. Few people populate the space: only drifters in the night with no bed to fall into or lovers to wrap their arms around. What fascinates me about this diner in particular is the intensity of the mood; diners are often perceived as nostalgic spaces in which you hear a classic song and allow yourself to be lulled into sweeter memories—here, the ties to the past are sour. Diners are similar across the country, and perhaps that’s the concern—Roberts wanted life out West to be void of any attributes of his older life, in which he had a lover and stability. He cannot have that life anymore, and the diner is part of that; a bitter reminder that the American Dream cannot work for everyone.
Paper Moon (1973), Directed by Peter Bogdanovich
Moses and Addie were not meant to be stuck together. He only came through town to provide condolences to a lost lover, and now standing before him is the last part of her that exists: a scrawny daughter with a face that looks more similar to his own. Addie’s neighbor requests that Moses take her to find her aunt, with whom she’ll live out the remainder of her childhood. He agrees, but not out of selflessness—he locates the man who killed Addie’s mother, swindling two-hundred dollars for her orphaned child, and plans to pocket this money. Addie discovers his plot and confronts him at the diner, demanding her fair share. The scene above plays like a poker match—two wise, stubborn figures who are not ignorant to the charades of their opponent. An underdog and a pro, two figures who match each other. It’s riveting, watching their exchange—their similarities go beyond physical, reaching into their souls. I love this diner scene for two reasons: one, I adore the framing near the window. Outside, the dusty street and old picture houses are a relic of a life no longer obtainable. Two, it is also a portrait of Midwestern life, the towns with miniscule populations that know each other too intimately. It reminds me of all the places I’ve driven through, boarded up hardware stores and marquees no longer used for their intended purposes. At the center, Addie and Moses: a mismatched family, real-life father and daughter pretending they don’t belong to each other within the film. They are the pinnacle of American life—two lonely drifters looking for someone despite not knowing it. Going from diner to diner, discussing over coffee and pancakes their ideas of a grand life.
Rain Man (1989), Directed by Barry Levinson
Charlie Babbitt has no idea where he’s going. He meant to fly out of Cincinnati with his brother Raymond, but his brother refused, resulting in a car ride across the United States. Charlie, who once hoped to shake off the weight of his father’s physical possessions, is now saddled with the deceased figure’s car. Charlie and Ray sit in a diner, Ray flipping through the music catalog and Charlie chain smoking. Beyond them, the cracked soil stretches into the horizon, nothing growing for miles. In the distance, mountains rise—it is a breathtaking sight, one that feels reminiscent of the landscape Jack Kerouac so proudly immortalized in ink. America, the free and ever-changing, a series of roads connecting you to distant places. These concrete paths are like veins, and the beating heart remains in the place of our birth—no matter how far Charlie takes Ray, home remains in Ohio. For brief moments, however, the diner is a space of growth for the Babbitt brothers. In Ohio, at their first stop, Charlie has no empathy for Ray, snapping at him for his behaviors. By their last diner visit, Charlie knows Ray’s order, curating the table for his maximum comfort. The diner serves as a place of progression, a destination along the road that forces Charlie to coexist with the habits of his brother. It also provides character—you learn a lot about a person from the food they order, and there’s no better decider of character than the go-to diner order. I find it intimate when someone knows your idiosyncrasies—how you ask for your eggs, if you get strawberries or blueberries with your French toast, if you put too much sugar in your coffee. Our time in the diner with Charlie and Ray allows us to know these specific details—we know how Ray likes his pancakes, cutting them up and serving them with toothpicks. The diner scenes in Rain Man are delicate—they are fleeting moments, all leading toward an inevitable separation.
Heat (1995), Directed by Michael Mann
I’ve seen Heat twice in theaters, and during both screenings, as the diner scene began, I leaned forward in my chair, positioning myself like a father watching the World Series. In a film with intense, unflinching action scenes, it feels preposterous to say the most riveting moment is a conversation. But for me, it is the simple truth—Heat’s impact hinges on the delivery of this scene and its presumed mundanity from background characters within this world. For over an hour, the audience has watched Vincent Hanna and Neil McCauley chase each other, failed jobs and raids allowing for each man to scrape by unharmed. During this moment, Vincent doesn’t attempt to arrest Neil—instead, they sit across a table, sharing dinner. It is the one moment they aren’t at each other’s throats—they are equals, even friends to those passing by and allowing their eyes to aimlessly drift across tables. It’s pivotal that the Neil and Vincent scene happens in a diner—again, this space of American imagery. Neil and Vincent are both plagued by their devotion to labor and how it forbids them to live a typical life. They attempt love and kids and all the aspects of life touted as parts of success, but none of it works out—they are married to the chase. The dialogue within this scene directly addresses a rejection of mundanity—Vincent asks Neil if he ever wanted a typical life, and Vincent asks if that means “barbecue and ball games.” It is an indispensable moment in which we are allowed to see Neil and Vincent as peers. The diner space is part of the American life they reject, and it is also part of their cover—they slip through in this location, hidden from eyes that would lambast their connection. It is a rare moment for the both of them, one that the audience does not take for granted.
Twin Peaks: The Return (2017), Directed by David Lynch
Twin Peaks spans across three decades, and in all iterations, the Double R Diner is presented as a destination of comfort, a place for people coming and going to find each other again. What has always moved me about Twin Peaks is David Lynch’s devotion to character—despite all the pain in the world, there’s an extraordinary and inexplicable beauty in the simple life. The people we meet, the places we frequent—all of it is part of our personal history, and it belongs solely to us. The Double R Diner is not treated as a throwaway place, a location where random scenes may occur for plot explanation—it holds weight in these characters’ lives, serving as a place to expel their guilt or love through conversation and dance. In the original run, my favorite scene is between Bobby Briggs and his father Major Briggs—he tells his son about a dream he had, one where Bobby had a peaceful future and made him proud. After multiple episodes of hostility, the moment is tender, and it happens naturally over a piece of pie and coffee. In The Return, the diner once again holds the histories of its characters—as familiar faces reemerge, it serves as a destination. Norma and Shelly remain at the diner, speaking to regulars and pedaling the tales of those who have come and gone. They are surveyors of time, keeping in their never-changing walls images of the past.
A conclusion, of sorts.
Paris, Texas (1984), Directed by Wim Wenders
I find pleasure in creating my own vision of America—I like to form my own patchwork of quirks and faults, stepping back and admiring the peculiarity I’ve concocted. I value spaces that are familiar and tight, old joints that have never been updated and continue to have original charm. I love when you can sit for hours in a booth, your arms burning from pressing into the table, and share parts of your life that have never before graced the tip of your tongue. The diner is, to me, our most precious place—it represents all that can be beautiful about our mythos. A consistent, similar location amidst ever-changing environments, one that welcomes us all on the road or at home.