Many films have this arc.
Conflict is imminent and starts early. The worst-case scenario at times seems imminent, until at some point there's a resolution that leaves a remote possibility for a sequel.
Such a plot played out over the course of Monday, the first day of the Democratic National Convention.
8:30 a.m., the Marriott Downtown.
Supporters of Sen. Bernie Sanders must be morning people — the bulk of them, anyway.
Members of the Florida delegation in support of Sanders show up en masse to a hotel banquet room to, in their own special way, welcome outgoing Democratic National Committee Chair Debbie Wasserman Schultz.
There is, sadly, an easy hook for the dignitaries scheduled to speak this morning: another mass shooting in Florida has left two dead at a youth nightclub in Fort Myers.
Connecticut Sen. Chris Murphy tells the breakfast crowd he feels their pain; he was weeks from being sworn into the Senate when the Sandy Hook shooting happened.
“Unfortunately it was a reminder of this daily epidemic that plagues this country,” he says of the "apocalyptic environment" that exists in the U.S. because damn near anyone can buy a machine capable of mowing down dozens in mere seconds.
Wasserman Schulz, the next speaker, is poised to speak on the same subject, but is instead loudly booed and shouted over.
It's not long before it is determined that she won't be gaveling in the convention.
Noon, roughly. Pennsylvania Convention Center.
Sanders tries to get his supporters to calm their shit down, seriously. He gets booed when he tells them to vote for presumptive Dem nominee Hillary Clinton.
Because, you know, the movement was never about him in the first place. That's why they never wear shirts emblazoned with his image or wave Milky Joe-esque Bernie puppets at rallies or anything.
All afternoon, outside the big tent.
Philly is not the easiest city to navigate, yet we're learning that, if you stick to the Broad Street subway line you'll be all right. The line dead-ends at the Wells Fargo Arena, where most of the theatrics are unfolding this week. The challenge comes when you don't know which direction you need to head in for your daily Secret Service wanding, and you end up amidst hundreds of protesters from all points of the political spectrum right at the moment the Berners are starting to shout back at the Jesus guys who are talking shit about Bernie.
The situation de-escalates when police form a circle around the Jesus people.
Walking among the throngs, we hear a young woman shouting at nearby stadium-bound delegates, "A vote for Hillary is literally a vote for Trump!"
Annoying misuse of "literally" aside, that seems emblematic of the Sanders camp's pivot to a message of electability given recent poll numbers showing Trump beating Clinton. The "Bernie's more electable" message is one we will hear over and over again Monday.
Members of the group Democracy Spring try to block the entrance to the heavily guarded perimeter of the arena. Dozens get cited or handcuffed, but no one is hauled off.
4:30 p.m., the cheapseats.
Gavel. Gospel. Pledge. Anthem.
5:00 p.m., same.
A series of people call for party unity behind Clinton, and some get booed for it.
U.S. Rep. Diane Fudge, D-Ohio, is chairing the convention in Wasserman Schultz's stead.
The booing? She. Is. Not. Having. It.
“We are all Democrats and we need to act like it,” she sternly tells the crowd.
Sanders delegates even heckle civil rights leader and Maryland Congressman Elijah Cummings, shouting "Stop the TPP!" as he talks about being raised by parents who were sharecroppers.
9:00 p.m., too many humans.
Ahead of Michelle Obama's and Sanders's speeches, the arena gets packed — to the point where there seems to be no spare seat in the house.
Delegates and media are treated to a performance by Paul Simon ("Bridge Over Troubled Water," because "Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes" which, though in our book a better song, probably would have been too apropos in all the wrong ways). U.S. Sen. from New Jersey Corey Booker shows why he's got a lot going for him.
10-ish, the floor of the arena.
We thought it was crowded upstairs. Good lord.
An ever-radiant Michelle Obama speaks to an adoring audience.
Unlike Trump, she says, Clinton isn't running for herself, and that for her, becoming president is "about leaving something better for our kids."
A sign about how far we've come?
"I wake up every day in a house that was build by slavery," she says, which gets roaring cheers.
We decide that your opinion of Michelle Obama is an indicator of your character.
Massachusetts Sen. Elizabeth Warren speaks next, and spends a whole lot more time on Trump,.
"Trump's entire campaign is just one giant late-night infomercial."
The worst part of it all, she says, is the hate engrained in his campaign message; hate against women, immigrants, the disabled, African-Americans...who are we leaving out?
When he takes the stage, Sanders somewhat awkwardly has to spend a few minutes trying to calm down the crowd, which is chanting and cheering extensively for him (we actually hear little to no booing). He says even though he knows that a lot of people, himself included, are "disappointed" in the nominating process, the whole political revolution deal has only just begun; the fight for comprehensive immigration reform, better education, better support of health care, paid family leave, reduced student debt and a more compassionate criminal justice system will endure.
"We thank you for the work you have done," he says. "I look forward to your votes during roll call tomorrow."
Mike Fox, a stalwart Sanders delegate from Pinellas, is leaving the floor after Sanders speaks.
Asked what comes next, he answers, "Thump Trump. That's my comment."
But not all Berninites feel that way.
"Hey, hey, DNC, we won't go for Hillary," shouts a group of pro-Bernie convention-goers as delegates file out of the arena.
12:30, the Academy of Natural Sciences.
Dinosaur party!
