I've spent the better part of a decade perfecting my movie theater regiment. And chief of all is the commandment: Thou shalt not attend Friday or Saturday-night movies.
Friday nights at seven may be the seminal American movie-going hour, but that's exactly why I've always avoided it. Even in today's modern luxury theaters, while you may no longer have to passive aggressively elbow-wrestle a stranger for border control of your armrest, the intervening presence of a movie theater audience can still be felt. There always seems to be the irresponsible parent with no qualms about shuffling his kids straight from soccer practice into the latest ultra-violent, expletive-laden, Tarantino flick that's sure to keep them up past their bedtime. Or worse yet, you get the parents so desperate for a night out, that think it's somehow OK to bring an infant to an R-rated movie.
I've always wished movie theaters were more like the student section at Badger games. That way the next time a dad is walking up and down the theater aisle, jingling his keys in a vain attempt to will his banshee-wailing infant to subside, a sizable portion of the audience would shout ""asshole"" at him. Maybe then such inconsiderate patrons would get a clue. But alas, in the darkness of a movie theater, we are eternally subjected to the rudeness of our fellow man, with little hope for recourse. We are at the complete mercy of our movie-going brethren.
Aside from these exceptionally un-self-aware individuals are still the candy-plastic crinklers, the popcorn chompers, the soda slurpers, the texting teens and a host of other nuisances, perhaps the most annoying of all being the talkers.
The talkers take many forms. There's the perpetually lost, eternally asking their neighbors ""What's going on?"" ""Who's that?"" or ""What happened while I was in the bathroom for the third time?"" There's the attention-seeking comedian who feels the need to declare his own commentary, alternate dialogue or innuendos to the rest of the audience. And then there's the stoned guy that laughs hysterically at everything that could possibly be construed as funny and even some moments totally bereft of comedy. But this begins to enter into a territory largely dependent on taste and perspective—the laugh track effect.
For decades, TV comedies have supplied us with an artificial invisible audience to watch along with us, not so subtly informing us when to laugh, when to gasp and when to applaud. But recently, a new breed of sitcoms like ""Community"", ""Parks and Recreation"", ""The Office"", and ""Modern Family"" have done away with these reaction-stoplights, confident enough in the intelligence of the viewers and their own material to let the real audience decide when to laugh and what to feel. And for the most part, this is how I feel movies should be.
I want to form my own opinions about a movie, react to it and engage with it on my own terms, without the distraction of being subjected to every one of my neighbors' immediate reactions. However, attending the Majestic Theater's Brew n' View screening of ""The Big Lebowski"" Saturday night reminded me that sometimes a crowd, despite its annoying qualities, can make a movie-going experience more enjoyable. It can create an entirely new experience watching the same old movie.
The first time I saw ""The Big Lebowski"" was on VHS in the early 2000s, and every time since then has been at home with at most a few close friends. Saturday night was the first time I had seen the film with a full public audience, and I must say it was a different beast entirely. I found that the laugh-track effect that usually feels like a jab in the ribs, goading me to laugh just because everyone else is, was replaced by the sensation of communal appreciation.
When you already know the script by heart, the masses' inebriated guffaws cease to threaten your ability to understand the dialogue and instead take on a certain endearing quality. It becomes a communal event that's just as much about the company you find yourself in —bonded over mutual taste and attitude—as it is about the movie itself.
To me, this experience feels more like to a sporting event, a concert or some other raucous live performance, than what I normally consider consuming a movie—an experience closer to digesting and contemplating a piece of literature, analyzing its fine details and nuances, allowing it to sink into me completely. But the fact that movies can inspire either side of the coin—rapt attention and deep contemplation or communal revelry—is a testament to the medium's versatility. And I don't think movie watching should be restrained to either sphere.
So, if you're like me and usually prefer to watch movies in the comfort of your own home or a partially deserted theater, insulated from an audience, give the masses another shot. Perhaps not for the new Ryan Gosling political thriller, but the next time you see a movie you love playing at the Terrace, at a WUD midnight screening or at a Brew n' View at the Majestic, order a few drinks and share in the mutual love of great cinema, even if you can't hear every line.
Got your own movie theater gripes? E-mail David at dcottrell@wisc.edu.
