What the hell is wrong with people in this country?
OK, that’s too broad a question. What the hell is wrong with people in this country when they go to the movies? It’s as if all common sense goes out the window.
A movie is not a rock concert where you can talk to your neighbor or call your best friend and say, “Dude, they’re playing ‘Dark Star.’” A film is an unusual combination of a very personal experience and a community event that, by the way, is best enjoyed in utter silence.
As someone who lives in a major metropolitan city (Los Angeles), I am subject to theaters that are a bit more crowded than, say, those in a smaller burgh such as Oshkosh, so everything is multiplied -- most notably stupid, inconsiderate people.
Thankfully, most theaters these days are beginning to remind patrons before the film, right after the insufferable “Pre-Show Countdown,” to turn off their cell phones and pagers. But it’s not really working, because at least once during every film there’s someone who thinks, “Well, that doesn’t mean me. I’m expecting an important call.”
During a recent film, a phone belonging to a gentleman a couple of rows in front of me began to ring (he was obviously one of the aforementioned VIPs who wasn’t switching his phone to vibrate), and after answering the phone went right into a conversation: “Where am I? Oh, I’m in the middle of watching a movie...” YEAH, SO ARE WE!
On another recent outing, a Russian gentleman in the row in front of me decided to translate the film in real time to his Russian female companion -- the entire film!! [Note: Please, if you’re Russian, this is not a slight against Russians, it’s just the ethnic background and language of the people who were in front of me that night. They could just as easily have been of some other nationality, so no letters to the editor about how we hate Russians.]
During a showing last week of Fahrenheit 9/11 (a film I highly recommend), a woman brought her dinner into the theater, and wouldn’t you know it, everything she chose to push into her face was wrapped in a hermetically sealed casing of crinkly plastic wrap. You know the kind I mean, that plastic that goes crwzplkcslesplkzrwstz!!, cutting right to the core of your being.
Barney Fife once issued a great set of rules for the Rock (the jail cell in Sheriff Andy Taylor’s Mayberry that usually housed Otis the drunk). Rule #1: No writing on the walls. Rule #2: Obey all rules.
I love going to the movies, and in order to regain the atmosphere most conducive to a fully enjoyable cinematic experience, I’d like to borrow from Barn with a new set of my own rules:
Rule #1: Sit down, shut up, turn off your cell phone or pager, and watch the movie.
Rule #2: Obey all rules.
Those who can’t follow these simple rules will be forced to watch From Justin To Kelly endlessly until they admit the error of their ways and promise to repent.
Last but not least, for those of you who feel compelled to apply three or four coats of your “favorite scent,” please don’t. It makes not a whit of difference if you bought that fragrance at Barney’s or Sav-On, it’s truly nauseating and unappreciated. And hey, you patchouli fans, just cut it out! You smell like what happens when used clothing meets a Bengali flood.
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