Theater Shift

A Commentary by Rhonda Baughman

Driving around my humble hamlet last week, I passed the budget theater. Here, in my Canton, Ohio station (temporary, mind you), we call it Movies 10. (Movies 4 vacated the commune years ago – to be replaced by, get this, a gym!) Movies for a buck! Popcorn for a buck! What a deal! Except for one problem – I cannot fathom sitting through one goddamn movie on the marquee. I have no idea what they are, or precisely, why they are … who wrote them – and to what purpose? The new congregation – that is, 21st century movie stars who are so fucking boring, that I find myself wishing for the apocalypse when I catch glimpses of them trying to articulate anything during an interview, are in full line-up. You can tell me about them again and again – and still, their presence will not register. Am I being mean? Nope – just direct. I cannot tell a lie – nor can I say anything about most new movies, without scoffing. And Tinsletown’s line up? Full price for movies that can’t hold my attention past the previews? And probably some god-awful uninspired remake? No bloody way. Not anymore. Not ever again.
Call me elitist, bitchy, out-of-touch, whatever you want – but the way I’ve heard some racists describe African-Americans, that is, they can’t tell them apart – I cannot tell the faceless flock of movies from the past five years apart – in any genre. It really is the entertainment Armageddon – suddenly I find myself wishing for the good old days of VHS rentals with tiny laminated tickets to be taken to the counter – boxes of artwork that were actually drawn, as opposed to photo shopped – the ride to Cleveland to see a new independent film - and even the midnight showing of a movie so special, it sells out – and we have to stand in line, banter, and shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other before we can get in.

Speaking of the uncomfortable shift – the last time I shifted uncomfortably in the theater – to wit, something made me so nervous, I turned around to make sure nothing was behind me, nor a riot about to spark … when was that? Let me see …

American History X: You know what scene. You better. If not, why are you reading this? I was sure another Higher Learning riot of the Canton Centre, Canton, Ohio was about to begin … after the mouth on the curb stomping scene – I gripped my armrests, waiting to fight.

A Nightmare on Elm Street Part 4 - The Dream Master: The déjà vu looping scene in front of the diner between Alice’s character and her new boyfriend as they try to drive away. Many of us thought for sure the tape had broken. It did not. We giggled. Nervously.

House of 1,000 Corpses: The same damn thing ten years later. I thought the tape had stalled, broken, frozen, what-have-you. Fire the fucking gun, Bill Moseley – fire it, already, I thought as I began to sweat, the camera pulled away – and finally …. finally … shells flew …

Child’s Play – in 1988, I was still too young to get into the theater without my dad. Now whether it was a fluke or a genuine ploy – the lights went out and the film stopped. Moviegoers gasped – my dad grabbed my hand. Good guy or not, the doll thing was still fairly new and people were scared – and then someone jokingly announced: Attention K-Mart shoppers! Tension released, breathing resumed - the film began again, and all was well …. kind of …

Dead Silence/Grindhouse – The last good films I recall. I didn’t shift. I sank – in my seat, behind my coat, sweating profusely, heart hammering, friends on each side pulled in close. Stupid fucking film – I can’t believe I didn’t have a heart attack. And during Grindhouse – more fun than a barrel of mackerel … and it lasted here for two weekends … God forbid, it wasn’t an Angelina Jolie film or a docu-drama about foreign plights and policies – or you know, a docu-drama with Angelina Jolie blubbering about foreign plights and policies. Silly me.

I wish for those old days again – you know, ten years ago? Yelling from film balconies with my obnoxious crew, diligently picking out films for the evening with boyfriends, with girlfriends, with groups of friends, writing reviews of new movies, old movies … Now, the only fun I can have is turning my apartment into a homage of vintage – from furniture and posters, to actual VHS on shelves, acting in movies with limited release from directors who are actually good – and gross – and funny, and thinking of the day I will get back to Kittanning, PA to have a slumber party in the King Lanes, with Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama on the big screen.
Until then … there is only the sound of my foot tapping … waiting impatiently for the industry to turn itself around, or you know – make an effort in some creative direction aside from an endless quest for money and insulting my intelligence.