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.
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