by Brian.


From its very creation film has been a ritual. More so in the past but still quite true in the present, watching a film has been much more than light entering corneas and being translated by the brain, but a document of time, place, and mood during those particular two hours. Sure we take away an experience of film-going, but in years to come we will always start our most potent film memories with the packed midnight crowd, breezy summer matinee, or looking for parking on a chilled winter night downtown with the only two of your friends who like going to the art-house theater. We take away from each experience not just a film seen but a postcard of cultural history run through the shutter of our memory.

Like the mystical triggers certain smells hold in our brain, a trip to the cinema is almost as vivid. Where else do we feel compelled to an all-night diner afterward, no matter how full or tired we may be? Before long the ritual itself becomes almost as important as the film on the marquee. I've had several friends, even myself bowing on occasion, (I have many logical excuses for seeing Soldier in a theater, but none of them shed light on the truth) who will join the group for a film just to partake in the pre and post-drive, the inevitable diner stop, and the filmic reflection with good friends. These friends are not to be faulted for this; they only prove my point that cinema has a magic and wondrous hold on our culture.

Perhaps the most important reason however, for the existence of the multiplexes, art-houses, discount theaters, and beloved drive-ins, aside from their sometimes-superior audio and visual capabilities and capacity for larger audiences, is the separation of film world and real world. When I venture past those doors that I never know whether to push or pull, into those long aisles of seats (some more comfortable than others) and the house lights go down, I am not in a Regal or Cinemark anymore. Instead I'm held in some form of animated suspension, all attention drawn to the only light flickering in front of my eyes. I can only presume that the theater has a similar effect on most, since more often than not any chatter heard before the film starts tends to fade away as the production logos roll (perhaps this is why those irritating conversationalists and commentators are so reviled, they interrupt our hypnosis by what's on screen and bring us back to the broken seats and sticky floors). It's also a comfort to me to see all of my film-going colleagues equally beleaguered and disoriented as they ramble out of the darkness, a newborn after each feature.

Because of these special circumstances, a good theater becomes a church, hallowed ground on which we all sojourn to every Friday; our eight bucks a hopeful sacrifice for godly intervention. Escapism is an admitted trait of my character, flourishing with each screening (even some of the bad ones), and I am not ashamed. Afterward, as the film's images slowly fade or grow in our minds, as we drive to our diner in preparation of the conversation sure to take place, I often find myself either somewhat saddened (if it's a good film) or relieved (if it's a bad one) to be out of the theater, my experience in another world over for another week.

This brings up an important point that was the original impetus for this article. The reason why I go to the theater is to experience a film on its own ground. DVD is a great medium and sooner rather than later more homes will be outfitted with theater-quality entertainment centers. This is a dream come true for lovers of great film, but there are inherent drawbacks. For one, you never get to share in audience participation. Many films have been heightened for me by laughter surrounding me, or a rupture of applause after a moment that springs the hairs on your neck. At home, you replace The Crowd with one or two, denying yourself the possibility of being carried away with innumerable faceless others. For another, there is no difference between Real life and Film life in your living room or den. You watch a film on the same TV that sputters your Sunday football game or Thursday evening sitcoms. There is no measure of immersion, which creates infinitely more distractions. One friend in particular has a very hard time watching a rental. The same film could captivate him on three separate occasions in the theater, yet leaves him uninterested after the first half hour as a rental. He simply gets up and leaves. There are also dire consequences for watching new films at home, one of which I will document here.

A while ago, I went over to a friend's house to watch a movie none of us had seen before: a wonderful film by Todd Solodnz called Happiness. We popped the disc in, turned the rather large TV on, sat on the assorted chairs and couches arranged in the room, and watched a comedy about pedophilia, adultery, rape, masturbation, murder, family dysfunction, suicide, and sexual awakening. After a few moments of silence, followed somewhat horrifically by one friend queuing up one of the two "money shots" in the film, we got up and talked and moved around, trying to act normal. Although it wasn't visible, dark clouds of uncomfort and dread fogged the living room for hours, oppressing anyone who entered with queasy uneasiness. A film that would've been perfectly contained and therefore enjoyable in a theater had "ruined" a living room in ninety minutes. No one wants that where they live.

So I go to the theater as much as I can, both to improve my experience and to protect my home. I go to remember my life better, to remember my friends better, and to remember the films better. To me, there will never be a home equivalent of a great theater filled with great people showing a great movie.


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