There are three teenagers standing off to the right of the ticket booth as I approach. They are in semi-serious discussion about what movie to see, but their options are disappearing as the night marches forward. I ask for a ticket for Iron Man, just at the same time that the sole male of the group suggests going to the same movie, in seems, in a repeated attempt to get the girls to make up their minds.
One of the girls looks in my direction. “But it just came out on video,” she pleads.
What this piece of information has to do with not seeing the movie at this particular theater at this particular time, I don’t understand. The allure of watching a larger-than-life movie on a larger-than-life screen is what brings me here tonight even though I’ve seen the movie already and Alicia is at home in bed asleep. And the Denny’s-at-three-a.m. feel of the late night dollar theater feels like the warmth of a childhood security blanket.
The movie runs without problems, but there is no fanfare for the projectionist, for whom this seems an extraordinary feat.
As the final credits roll, the lights come up and the handful of other movie-goers file out of the theater silently. But I’ve seen this before and I know about the treat that lies at the end of the credits for only the truly dedicated. I wait to see Samuel L. Jackson introduce himself as Nick Fury and tell Tony Stark about the Avenger Initiative.
When the screen finally goes blank, I exit the theater to the faces of the expectant late-night cleaning crew and dodge brooms, cleaning supplies, and boxes of garbage bags—all waiting for me to leave.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Hellboy II: The Golden Army 10:25
I'm tired tonight, but I've been itching to get out. Itching to sit in a half-empty dark theater and just breath it all in. I'm not even sure I want to see the movie, but the call of the theater is enough to get me out on an uncommonly cool night.
Normally, I don't feel self-conscious about going to movies alone in the middle of the week. The theater is normally pretty dead and the employees don't care. In fact, there are others like me, they come into the theater and sit down. Their faces obscured with hats or hooded sweatshirts. They don't look around, afraid to be caught by themselves in a place usually reserved for families, couples, and pairs of teenagers looking for a dark room and some semi-privacy. They don't make eye-contact, as if they can hide as long as no one recognizes them or notices their lonely state.
I don't fear the solitude or the social stigma of the man going to the movies alone when I go in the middle of the week late at night, but tonight there is a group of male college students standing around the parking lot as I drive up and get out of my car. They throw furtive glances my way, their eyes questioning the anomaly of the single movie patron.
Their glances tug at my jacket and make me question my decision to come. But the seductive pull of the theater overcomes my fears.
In the lobby, the concession stand has been taken apart. Two bored teenagers lean on the bare counter, but there is no popcorn, no soda machines, and the candy has been taken out of its display cases.
As I approach the usher I ask what happened. He recites a line, it seems, he has had to repeat several times. He doesn’t look at me. “We’re not going out of business. We’re just remodeling. You can still visit the concession stand.” He hands my torn ticket back to me, and I smile.
Surprisingly, the theater is packed. Well, packed for 10:25 on a Thursday night, which is to say there are probably 15 people in the theater already when I sit down. A hand full more amble in for the next few minutes until the lights darken and the movie starts, and I start to feel the stare of the college kids in the parking lot again. The lone movie-goer at 10:25 on a Thursday night.
Normally, I don't feel self-conscious about going to movies alone in the middle of the week. The theater is normally pretty dead and the employees don't care. In fact, there are others like me, they come into the theater and sit down. Their faces obscured with hats or hooded sweatshirts. They don't look around, afraid to be caught by themselves in a place usually reserved for families, couples, and pairs of teenagers looking for a dark room and some semi-privacy. They don't make eye-contact, as if they can hide as long as no one recognizes them or notices their lonely state.
I don't fear the solitude or the social stigma of the man going to the movies alone when I go in the middle of the week late at night, but tonight there is a group of male college students standing around the parking lot as I drive up and get out of my car. They throw furtive glances my way, their eyes questioning the anomaly of the single movie patron.
Their glances tug at my jacket and make me question my decision to come. But the seductive pull of the theater overcomes my fears.
In the lobby, the concession stand has been taken apart. Two bored teenagers lean on the bare counter, but there is no popcorn, no soda machines, and the candy has been taken out of its display cases.
As I approach the usher I ask what happened. He recites a line, it seems, he has had to repeat several times. He doesn’t look at me. “We’re not going out of business. We’re just remodeling. You can still visit the concession stand.” He hands my torn ticket back to me, and I smile.
Surprisingly, the theater is packed. Well, packed for 10:25 on a Thursday night, which is to say there are probably 15 people in the theater already when I sit down. A hand full more amble in for the next few minutes until the lights darken and the movie starts, and I start to feel the stare of the college kids in the parking lot again. The lone movie-goer at 10:25 on a Thursday night.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Hancock 10:15
Jake goes to his car to get some quarters, but I am unaware that we’re going out. We’d looked at showtimes earlier, but hadn’t really made any plans.
I flop down on the recliner. Alicia sits on the floor watching TV as she cuts and pastes together homemade cards. “Are you guys going?” she asks.
“What?”
“Are you guys going to a movie?”
“I don’t think so,” I reply.
Jake, wearing my black hoodie, chimes in from the kitchen. “Were not?”
I’m a little surprised. “Oh, are we going? I didn’t think we were going.”
I guess this has become a bit of a ritual for Jake and I. He comes back from work late Tuesday night, or Wednesday morning, and we go to a movie Wednesday night. He already has a dollar fifty jangling around in the pocket of my hoodie.
We head for Kmart, the black hole of hope, hoping to get in before it closes. As we pull up, the lights are still on inside. We park and jump out of the car—Jake, ready to bolt through the automatic doors as if being chased by men with guns, like that scene in The Fugitive. “Hey, I think I see Biggie in there,” he says, referring to the overweight teenager who is always working the customer service desk. I’m about to lock the car when Jake turns around.
“They put carts in front of the door,” he says and reluctantly puts his hand back on handle of the car door.
As we pull out of the parking lot, I offer other suggestions: gas station, Shopko. But we pass an Albertson’s and I pull in.
The candy selection is surprisingly small compared to Kmart’s, considering that Albertson’s is a grocery store—that mainly sells food—and Kmart is not. Jake grabs a box of Milk Duds and a box of Mike and Ikes, disappointed that they don’t stock Good ‘n Fruitys.
At the theater, standing in front of the ticket counter, Jake gives me his dollar fifty in change and I push my bills through the glass: “Two for Hancock.” It always feels weird buying two tickets for myself and another guy, a feeling that is reiterated as I hand two tickets to the man standing at the ticket-taking podium.
He’s not one of the usual teenagers. He looks to be in his early- to mid-forties, with a second-hand suit and a cheap silk tie with no discernable pattern. He looks at us and mumbles in an accent I can’t quite place. All I catch is the number “nine” as he gestures down the hall to his right.
Tonight it’s hard to find two seats together that aren’t broken, but Jake and I find two seats that are bearable and settle in, chewing on the Mike and Ikes, which lose their appeal after a second mouthful.
There’s a promo for a new Knight Rider TV show playing, which looks dreadful, then Kid Rock comes on screaming a song that amounts to little more than a commercial for the Army Reserves. Flags waving, smiling soldiers, and little children smiling into the camera after being saved from one disaster or another by a smiling soldier holding a waving flag.
The movie starts as usual: blurry, out of frame, and gargling soundtrack. But it fixes itself within a minute or so and the lights dim. I pop a Milk Dud in my mouth and take in the beautiful chaos of the dollar theater, late on a Wednesday night.
I flop down on the recliner. Alicia sits on the floor watching TV as she cuts and pastes together homemade cards. “Are you guys going?” she asks.
“What?”
“Are you guys going to a movie?”
“I don’t think so,” I reply.
Jake, wearing my black hoodie, chimes in from the kitchen. “Were not?”
I’m a little surprised. “Oh, are we going? I didn’t think we were going.”
I guess this has become a bit of a ritual for Jake and I. He comes back from work late Tuesday night, or Wednesday morning, and we go to a movie Wednesday night. He already has a dollar fifty jangling around in the pocket of my hoodie.
We head for Kmart, the black hole of hope, hoping to get in before it closes. As we pull up, the lights are still on inside. We park and jump out of the car—Jake, ready to bolt through the automatic doors as if being chased by men with guns, like that scene in The Fugitive. “Hey, I think I see Biggie in there,” he says, referring to the overweight teenager who is always working the customer service desk. I’m about to lock the car when Jake turns around.
“They put carts in front of the door,” he says and reluctantly puts his hand back on handle of the car door.
As we pull out of the parking lot, I offer other suggestions: gas station, Shopko. But we pass an Albertson’s and I pull in.
The candy selection is surprisingly small compared to Kmart’s, considering that Albertson’s is a grocery store—that mainly sells food—and Kmart is not. Jake grabs a box of Milk Duds and a box of Mike and Ikes, disappointed that they don’t stock Good ‘n Fruitys.
At the theater, standing in front of the ticket counter, Jake gives me his dollar fifty in change and I push my bills through the glass: “Two for Hancock.” It always feels weird buying two tickets for myself and another guy, a feeling that is reiterated as I hand two tickets to the man standing at the ticket-taking podium.
He’s not one of the usual teenagers. He looks to be in his early- to mid-forties, with a second-hand suit and a cheap silk tie with no discernable pattern. He looks at us and mumbles in an accent I can’t quite place. All I catch is the number “nine” as he gestures down the hall to his right.
Tonight it’s hard to find two seats together that aren’t broken, but Jake and I find two seats that are bearable and settle in, chewing on the Mike and Ikes, which lose their appeal after a second mouthful.
There’s a promo for a new Knight Rider TV show playing, which looks dreadful, then Kid Rock comes on screaming a song that amounts to little more than a commercial for the Army Reserves. Flags waving, smiling soldiers, and little children smiling into the camera after being saved from one disaster or another by a smiling soldier holding a waving flag.
The movie starts as usual: blurry, out of frame, and gargling soundtrack. But it fixes itself within a minute or so and the lights dim. I pop a Milk Dud in my mouth and take in the beautiful chaos of the dollar theater, late on a Wednesday night.
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