Thursday, January 14, 2010

Rant: This is not your living room, movie watching philistines (Omnibus locus fit caedes)

I recently broke my own vow to myself and partook in the cinematic "event" that was "Avatar". I knew before I went in that it would be some sort of James Cameron vanity project, but the lure of 3D vision was too great. Those red and green lenses beckoned like sirens, propelling me back to the days of my beloved View Master.


An aside:
Sadly, my View Master was responsible for the slow and painful deaths of many a good man. The Beaverton factory where they were made was build atop a toxic waste dump. Fellow children of the 80s and possibly 90s WE HAVE BLOOD ON OUR HANDS!!!Beaverton blood, no less.

Anyhoo, I went to my local theatre (Park Slope Pavillion, holla!), and was immediately disappointed to find that they had done away with my favorite Downs Syndrome ticket ripper. Now, just wait a goddamn minute Judgey McSneer. I didn't look down on this young man. He made me feel good. The joy he demonstrated upon each rip was an unparalleled delight in a service industry which usually treats me as though I had just pulled down my trousers and defecated in front of it.

NB. The only place I feel more hated is in government-run institutions where I just feel frightened and alone. In fact, I often opine that if one wanted to experience pure, unadulterated confusion and terror they should deplane at Los Angeles International "Airport".



Well, on this particular evening, the Pavillion was LAX-esque. The fellow that the Pavillion overlords had deemed more appropriate than having us get Down with the Syndrome, blithely ripped our tickets and shoved some 3D glasses in to my grubby mitts. The whole thing was very PopCopy.




Dave Chappelle - Pop Copy - Click here for the funniest movie of the week

Dear reader, please excuse my tangential, stream-of-consciousness post. A trip to the theatre is one of the small pleasures in my otherwise-dismal life. I have a system, nay, a doctrine, when it comes to how I believe one should act in a house of moving pictures. My close friends and family are all well aware of my expectations some of which I will outline now:
1. Do not have your phone on, do not look at your phone, do not get your phone out for the duration of the film. Why do you need to know the time? Don't even bother pretending that someone texted you. We both know they didn't. Why should your LCD screen break any feeble attempt I have made at the suspension of disbelief.
2. Do not eat after the previews. yes I know, this is where I'm going to lose some of you. Whatever. I'm right, you are wrong. Listening to you shovel your dinosaur-head sized snack into your cavernous pie hole is worse than going to the DMV. I am still trying to get over the fact that here one can purchase nachos and burgers at the movies. NACHOS and BURGERS. Where did we lose ourselves along the way? At what point did this become OK? Shame.
*An aside:
There is (as usual) a deep seated trauma at the heart of this. Movie horror, thy name is Choc Top. When I was younger and wanted to see a movie, inevitably my mother would use my desperation as a means by which to spend "quality time" with her eldest spawn. Every single time my mother would purchase a Choc Top ice cream cone.



Reader, how long do you think this confection would take a normal human being to eat? ten minutes? twelve if we are generous, and it is winter? No! You are mistaken. My mother would stretch out a choc top for an ETERNITY. For.ev.er. The movie titles would be over, the central conflict introduced and my mother would be slowly tackling the last half of her ice cream. Each slow crunch was directly responsible for a tiny blood vessel bursting inside of my brain. Even in Paris, my mother managed to bypass both me, and her lack of mastery over French, to convince the Manimal to get her the French version of a Choc Top (Ha! Suck it France, you're no better than us). Of course, this was highly distracting for me as I had to focus my rage in to silently glaring at her so as not to violate my next movie rule:

3. Do not talk. Period. I don't care what you think. I came to this movie precisely so I didn't have to interact with you.
* The only exceptions to this rule are when my brother uncharacteristically yelled out "Sweet Sassy Molassy" during Cast Away, and the time a midget tripped and yelled "Shit!" during The Blair Witch Project.

Anyway, we saw Avatar. The glasses were black, not red and green. The 3D demonstration at the beginning was cooler than the actual movie.

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