There is Always Tomorrow: Fear, Hope, and Remembrance of Those Who Bridge That Gap

Jonathan Arredondo and Alessandra Greco’s There is Always Tomorrow uses the pathology of agoraphobia to tap into a larger shift towards the home as survival bunker during and after the pandemic. In turn, as a result of that shift, doorstep delivery has become a yawning chasm hungry for gig workers.  

In this 15-minute film, these two sides of the coin have become Maria (Greco, also the screenwriter) and Alex (Michael J. King). The former’s aversion to the outside has led to a completely sealed off life indoors. Even the blinds are drawn 24×7. The latter’s well-intentioned and completely unwelcome efforts at cordiality are met with a locked door—albeit one that still allows in light. This semi-permeability, which serves the practical purpose of letting Maria confirm if someone has left or is lurking by her door, later becomes the foundation upon which a connection is inevitably forged between client and service worker. 

As with her tense security surveillance, the semi-permeable door offers room for Maria to begin a kind of exposure therapy to the outside world. She allows herself to be befriended from a distance, i.e., from behind the safety of her door. What’s more, it creates the perfect opportunity to stage a semi-romantic moment (though the characters are some ways away from that development). 

What the film does better is depict Maria’s fear, both in the things she does and the way she does them. She does not, for instance, just observe the door to see if the hall is clear. She holds the tension throughout her body until she knows she is alone, and therefore, safe. Similarly, peeking out through the blinds to confirm a proper exit is less important than how Maria tiptoes to the window. It is as if keeping the world out of her home requires that she deceive it into believing in her non-existence. Also interesting are her costumes. Almost always dressed up, there is not a hint of sweatpants or pajamas anywhere in Maria’s oddly empty feeling apartment. 

Alex’s feelings about his hostile, upper-middle class client are only obliquely viewed. The emphasis is placed instead on his seeming altruism. In fact, the character is quite the manic pixie dream boy, insistent on bringing the WFH protagonist out of the shelter turned tomb. 

There is Always Tomorrow is ironically titled, and explained with the abrupt thoughtlessness with which change has always come knocking. But this half tragic, half feel-good narrative opts to look at the bright side of things, and by the end, acute wounds become only mute memories that tap gently at the edge of perception.