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'n a chilly autumn night in New York City, an East Village movie house that is well known for its midnight showings of contemporary classics is slowly filling up. The crowd is mostly male and appropriately "East Village" in attire—except for two young men down in front. Unlike their frocked and studiously unkempt contemporaries, they are decidedly austere in non-autumn garb: lightweight tan cotton jackets with zippers, T-shirts, and chinos. With their hair close-cut, they have an almost military air. Their conversation is clipped, nearly argumentative in tone, and they sit on opposite sides of an empty seat.
As the theater fills up and showtime approaches, the blaring percussive music coming from the house PA system stops, and a familiar voice-over provides ambience for last-minute arrivals. In perfect sync with that truculent, disembodied voice, one of the pair down in