To the idiots who thought it was a good idea to bring a fussy 2-year-old to the 10pm showing of Logan last night – sleep peacefully knowing that although you were rude, distracting and thoughtless you were NOT the most annoying moviegoers in the auditorium merely because the drunken stoners who loudly stumbled in about 1/3 of the way through (and left just as ninja-like about 20 minutes before the end) edged you out of that dubious honor. Nevertheless, I salute you and your brazen lack moviehouse etiquette and hope some other cinema patron with less of a sense of humor than myself visits you in the night ready, willing and able to shove a large box of popcorn shoved up your backside.
Posts Tagged ‘Movies’
Mexican theater chain Cinépolis revealed plans to put a children’s playground in movie theaters.
Now I can’t be absolutely sure but, if I remember my cinema correctly, making movie houses more kid-friendly was one of the seven signs in that Demi Moore film, wasn’t it?
On my thirteenth birthday, my cousin Ginny gave me a fake ID. Not so I could buy beer – so I could see R-rated movies. I had wanted to see Children of the Corn pretty damn bad but my dad wouldn’t take me. So my best friend Roland Bridger and I went to the Cardinal Theater and I flashed my new ID. They sold me a ticket but wouldn’t let Roland buy one because he was under 17 and didn’t have a fake ID. I tried to convince them he was my son but, of course, they didn’t believe me. I then tried to sneak him in one of the exits but we got caught and banned for life. The Cardinal closed down shortly thereafter. Still. I have yet to see Children of the Corn. And I never will, just on principle.
Despite what you think, Peter Jackson, you are not done. You can’t be.
For the last 13 years, you have given us Hobbits and Wizards and Dwarves and Orcs and all things Middle-earth meted out in 3-hour increments dispensed every few years like a herpetic outbreak of Tolkieninity. Now, you release The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies as if your directorial journey has ended. Nice bloody try, mate.
But you can’t stop now. Seriously, there’s an entire generation that has grown up expecting a Peter Jackson helmed high fantasy in their multiplex with clockwork regularity and you cannot disappoint them or the throngs of moviegoers that await the next installment of their celluloid precious.
So what if you’ve run out of source material? That didn’t stop the James Bond people. Don’t Frodo and Bilbo and all the Bagginses deserve as long a life and as incredible an array of adventures as 007? Sure they do. And we deserve to see it and you deserve to make it. No – you owe us! I mean, you started us on this long road in 2001 and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you quit on us now.
It doesn’t have to be just new adventures and sequels. There’s spin-offs and reboots and reimaginings. Gollum’s origin, Saruman’s family reunion, an Ent mystery thriller. Recast, remake, reduce, reuse, recycle, whatever the hell it takes to keep New Zealand in business and the J. R. R. universe a-poppin’.
So get to work, Jackson. These movies ain’t gonna make themselves.
A memory I had long since suppressed just resurfaced for some reason.
It was summer of 1977 and I’m at my friend Eric’s birthday party. I liked Eric; he had a hot mom. And so, for his birthday, his hot mom took about a half dozen of us kids out for pizza and a movie. I wanted to see Smokey and the Bandit a second time because I knew it was awesome (at the very least, that new Star Wars thing people were talking about) … only I got overruled and outvoted and we ended up seeing For the Love of Benji, an experience I only barely survived by rooting for the evil Doberman Pinscher that pursues Benji. Seriously! For the Love of Benji! How awful is that!
Eric’s hot mom didn’t even sit with us.
So I’m attending a movie Monday afternoon and the guys sitting in the row in front of me are being rude – talking, texting, you know the drill. Generally just ruining the moviegoing experience for die-hard cine-philes like myself. So what did I do? Nothing. I sat there. I bloody well sat there and took it, every word, every distraction, every obnoxious nuisance. Because there was no way in this world or any other that I, being one of the whitest people on the planet, was going to tell three African-American dudes to “Shhhhhhhh!” during a Martin Luther King, Jr. Day matinée of 12 Years A Slave.