For those of you who still use Facebook, there is one feature that fills you as much with a warm nostalgia as a reminder that some things don’t age well. I’m talking about the Memories page where events from years ago will prop up. For me, it’s often something inoffensive, like a personal achievement in my writing career, or pictures of my nieces. Things that you wouldn’t lose sleep over if somebody dug up out of the ground and showed the world.
However, there was one thing that cropped up in my rummaging that shook me to my core. Maybe in a different year or a situation, it wouldn’t be as impressive. However, in the midst of a pandemic where self-isolation has become the latest trend, I found myself becoming forlorn from the news of a triple feature for Edgar Wright’s Cornetto Trilogy.
On August 22, 2013, I know exactly where I was for an entire afternoon. It was a moment meant to commemorate the release of The World’s End (2013), which ended one of the most creative spiritual trilogies in modern history. As a filmmaker, Wright is unsurpassed in his ability to mix genre style with humor and heart. At the time I wasn’t ready for a very sad story about alcoholism and immaturity, finding it to be the disappointing third chapter when compared to Shaun of the Dead (2004) and Hot Fuzz (2007). Then again, it still was a great movie.
But here’s the thing. As much as I can get caught up in my feeling towards the movie, the day itself symbolized something more significant in my life. It was the first time that I went to the movies with my friend Rocky. We had bonded over British humor, especially that of Simon Pegg and Nick Frost. If you ask him, we’re basically them. For whatever reason, it became this goal to attend the trilogy screening at The Long Beach Edwards, Cornetto ice cream in hand.
While we didn’t get that last bit, we had a checklist of what we were going to cheer for. We were going to convince the doorman to let us sneak next door for drinks during intermissions as an homage to The World’s End (well… all of the films, actually). Everything was planned and we eagerly anticipated the next phase of our journey as every closing credits rolled, citing the familiar pieces of trivia as the moments called for them.
And, in a random detail that continues to linger in my mind, I remember a man from somewhere in the middle of the theater rising during one of these intermissions. He turned to his public and asked them how they felt about Ben Affleck being Batman. It was breaking news and rarely have I been in a more appropriate spot than hearing the slow realization spread across the room. Rocky and I would see Affleck as Batman in a few years, but for now, it was this strange culmination that felt like perfect timing. I’d never forgotten where I was when I heard this news.
On the one hand, this moment is insignificant. This past summer has been more about celebrating Wright’s Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (2010), arguably his greatest cult classic. I definitely think the attention deserves to be lobbied on it. Again, I could share stories of watching the film on opening night, convulsing when that Universal logo came up in 8-bit before cutting to the credits. Remember how Knives Chau was reacting to Sex Bob-omb from that couch? That was me, feeling like I had witnessed the future of cinema.
But that is a tangent, itself full of fond memories.
As I sat there recalling The Cornetto Trilogy screening with Rocky, I found myself realizing what I’ve missed the most in life. It was five months ago that California limited crowds from going to theaters of any kind. While I fully support this decision given that COVID-19 isn’t worth the price of admission, I still find myself realizing that one of the biggest holes in my life right now is that I don’t have that escapism. I don’t have that story of sitting in a theater and having the picture wash over me, listening to a crowd react to entertainment. To me, the theater has always been about the community, and I’m as there for the film as the atmosphere. I know some people hate "the talker” or the “the laugher,” but in tolerable doses, these make movies that will sit on your shelf for all eternity into something greater. It proved that you didn’t just lie about going out and seeing it.
Like most people, the theater is where we communed to have fun and enjoy the energy of the room. While the quality of the film may diminish on home experience, the feeling of anticipation and observing how every last person reacts to it makes me feel some excitement that is irreplaceable.
Another thing that I miss is when I was younger and had the time. Back then I was a podcast host for Nerd’s Eye View, a general pop culture show that I helped build from the ground up. I was discovering my taste then and it didn’t matter what garbage movie we saw that week. There was something to sitting around, planning our next experience. It was a time when nobody knew if the Marvel Cinematic Universe was going to be a big deal. For all that we knew The Avengers (2012) was going to be as good as it got. Maybe The Dark Knight Rises (2012) was going to be the last really good Batman movie.
To be young and full of hope. I honestly miss that part of my life, if just for how we were in the trenches together, bonding over film. Where I lacked the skills to be a charismatic podcaster, I still loved being in that room, listening to my friends detail why they thought Green Lantern (2011) was a giant mess. I wish I wasn’t such an irrational young man, but I am thankful to have known them, to have those nights when we went to theaters and experienced cinema together, discovering these generation-defining moments together. Even if the podcast lasted up until early 2017, by then everyone had their own side hustles and outside of recording, we didn’t see each other often. I think the last movie we saw as a group was probably Spotlight (2015).
There are different feelings in the falling out of that podcast that I don’t wish to get into. However, I think of them now, when I am trapped in a house and think of the years that I’ve spent in a movie house. You wouldn’t think that looking at a bright wall in a dark room would have so much meaning, give me so much hope and life, and yet I notice how much I miss it right now.
I’m currently looking at promos for The New Mutants (2020) and feeling a strange emotion. The movie has been trying to come out for years now, and it’s now coming out at the worst possible time. When nobody can go to the movies, it’s finally there. It remains a film that I’m dying to see because it feels like it could’ve symbolized a new and hopeful time in the X-Men franchise. Instead, it feels like everyone knows it’s going to bomb, so why not just get it to home video as fast as possible?
But that’s the thing. There is that part of me that feels like I need that fix. I need to sit in a theater and watch this movie out of some perverse obligation. In a different world, Rocky and I would be there, ordering drinks from the bar and just having a great time. In that world, we would’ve been ending our annual summer of blockbusters, and it hurts to feel like nothing happened. September is starting and this feels like the most uneventful entertainment period in my life. Oh sure, The Assistant (2020) is a masterpiece, but it’s not going to the movies and having the spontaneity, the idea that maybe the guy in front of you will stand up and tell you that Affleck is Batman… again.
As I read these reports about whether opening theaters is “worth it,” I think about this past December. More specifically, I think of Cats (2019) and recognize how much I love its strange and deeply flawed heart. I want to go to rowdy screenings. Much like The Room (2003) before, there is something about experiencing bad art with people who “get it.” I don’t know if I would’ve been to a screening by now, but I would’ve at some point. It’s a reminder that sometimes art doesn’t need to be great. It just needs to be entertaining in such a way that it enlivens the audience, bringing them together in song and ridicule. I know that in part because I saw The Room with an enthusiastic crowd, and it’s everything you’d hope for and more.
Even when nobody else is with me, I think of the movies that meant the world to me in a theater. I still remember being caught off-guard when seeing Gravity (2013). I was so enamored with the film that I saw it in 3D IMAX a few weeks later. Even this year, I found myself sitting in 1917 (2020) and finding myself in constant awe of what we were watching. I am a sucker for a meticulous long shot, and I honestly think that Sam Mendes found a way to revolutionize war cinema, making you feel like you were with these two grunts in the trenches.
It’s the immersion of the image, the sound bearing down on you and making you feel like you’re there in the moment. I just bought 1917 on a discount and am curious to watch it again. However, I notice what will be lost in the transition. At home, I’m more distracted, alone, and I have a mediocre sound system. I won’t be able to feel like I’m in those trenches or get caught up in the detail of the roads, scattered with the turmoil that looks days old. I may still love what the film achieves, but a long take is a special kind of hypnotic that requires a focus that I can only get if I lock up everything but the TV in my house.
As of today, the last time that I stepped into a movie theater was for Emma. (2020). Maybe it’s just that time makes the heart grow fonder, but it was a wonderful period piece full of great detail, reminding me how many fun afternoons I’ve spent in a theater looking at Anya-Taylor Joy and feeling like Mia Goth was finally forming a dynamic. I loved listening to the pattering of cute laughter behind me. In any other year, it would be a milquetoast experience, and yet it symbolized something greater. I’m there for an immersive experience, and that includes the feeling that my appreciation for cinema is not specific to me. I even love hearing awkward laugh lines and wondering why people respond the way they do.
I think of all of this in relation to The World’s End because it remains one of the most significant moments in our friendship. We began going to every superhero movie since, giving me a reason to stay up to date on the latest releases. I loved the feeling of discovering Spider-Man: Into the Spider-verse (2018) with him and finding a third party to talk to at the bar. I even liked that we had our own running joke during the trailers during Jojo Rabbit (2019). Basically, we saw the ad for The Hidden World (2019) and joked “his imaginary friend is Hitler.” It’s one of those moments that enhances the experience.
The truth is that I could ramble on about all of these, but that’s all this is. As I look back at a Facebook Memory, I realize that a piece of my current depression is that it’s lacking a certain piece of stimulation. There is a whole process of buying your ticket and picking a seat. It’s feeling like the world around you shares an interest in something you like. Right now, I don’t know if anyone honestly likes The King of Staten Island (2020), or if I’m just latching onto a hopelessness that I used to see in myself. I miss the public. I wish that I could say that I would see them in theaters for The New Mutants this Friday, but you’re probably too smart to do that.
Still, I long to see that marquee lit up again, the projector turning on, Maria Menounos randomly bugging me for no reason. It’s all so simple, and yet it centers me in ways that I haven’t felt in so long. Movies will always be great, but so long as Facebook reminds me of every time I went to the movies (which is several dozen times a year), it will continue to hurt. I’ll remember fondly, but I hope soon I’ll have a new memory to add to that list.
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