By Elizabeth Henry
Thursday is the new Friday, and 7 p.m. is the new midnight for moviegoers. Whether you’re a die-hard franchise fan, rushing for the right to say you saw it first or someone dragged you along, tonight we are going to see a movie.
Arriving at the theater early means taking part in the pre-movie ritual with fellow patrons. You and the employee exchange plastic smiles and paper tickets. The tickets are ripped in half, and the smiles are wiped away as your feet carry you to the proclaimed theater number.
Some nights there’s a red-carpet event lined with press and fans fixated on the perfect shot for tabloids and social media feeds. On your right are the queues of moviegoers discussing which refreshments would be sufficient to abate the hunger brought on by sitting for hours in the dark. On the left massive cardboard creations of towering figures advertise Hollywood’s next box office hits and misses.
The chaotic chorus of the theater patrons’ fill your ears.
“Popcorn yes, extra butter no.”
“Do you want to upgrade for $0.50 more?”
“I can’t believe these prices.”
“Should we get nachos or mozzarella sticks?”
The conversations merge into one, moving from the crowded lobby, down the carpeted hallway towards the correct dimly lit theater.
Now comes the most critical part of the ritual. Each spectator has their preferred seat. Locating their row but choosing an entirely different one if someone else is already there. If possible, leave at least one seat between the chosen seat and the next occupied seat — this is the unspoken, unwritten but well-known rule of finding a seat. No one likes sharing an armrest with a stranger.
It’s easy to see if a person walks in looking to hold seats for a group that hasn’t arrived. There’s a pause at the row and the counting commences. The queues for snacks are long and slow so jackets, bags or even a body can and is often used to stake a claim on multiple seats.
The lights from a dozen handheld screens dot the space. Vibrating and dinging to signal new text messages and Instagram likes being received.
“Where are you?”
“I’m here. Got us seats.”
“Great. Getting candy.”
The soundtrack to the pre-show ritual is a stream of commercials and advertisements that haven’t changed in years and are easily ignored.
“Let’s all go to the Lobby, Let’s all go to the Lobby …” Dancing popcorn and hotdogs urge and whether or not coincidental, the dimly lit space slowly fills with the smell of butter and the sounds of slurping liquids.
“Excuse me, excuse me, sorry, excuse me.”
The theater fills as the clock counts down. More and more people enter replacing bags and jackets. Friends take turn emptying their bladders before the next two-and-a-half hours of action and laughs. The air is warmer than expected and jackets remain off and discarded as everyone settles in.
Stray or late spectators enter and seem surprised that their preferred seats are taken. The already seated spectators watch and comment on the newest additions in disbelief. If they wanted better seats they should have arrived earlier and partaken in the ritual of seating. Now the next two-and-a-half hours will consist of strained necks and eyes in the front row.
The obligatory, funny commercial stating the need to silence cell phones for the consideration of your neighbors plays. The last texts are sent, do not disturb modes are turned on.
At the end of the trailers the screen remains dark a second longer. There is a collective pause and the stillness grows in the space.
Final whispers are swapped. Already dim lights darken and the screen widens. The movie begins.
