My young adult son and I went out to a movie the other night, which is a truly rare event these days.
I currently have a TV in my bedroom so large that people watch it from the International Space Station. And a sound bar connected to it that’s so lifelike you’re tempted to call 911 when you hear a crash.
As a result, like many of you, I can’t see much point in putting on actual clothes, driving to a theater, spending 20 minutes looking for parking and then mortgaging my house to pay for everything, all to spend two hours inside a theater watching things blow up.
Because that’s what my son likes to watch. He’s a guy after all. He wants to see explosions and car chases and lots of bullets being fired from an assortment of lethal weapons. He wants to see men in sunglasses jumping from fiery cars as they plummet off a cliff into the ocean.
On the other hand, I like to see ladies and gentlemen in period clothes, walking around the large green back lawn of a stately home, playing croquet and making witty remarks to each other in English accents.
You might be surprised to learn that these wishes are not compatible, which is why we seldom see a movie together.
I suspect Cheetah Boy would rather eat ground glass than see the new “Downton Abbey” movie that’s about to be released, while I already have my tickets.
Plus, it seems like typical movie decorum has broken down, now that everyone’s used to watching at home.
“Can you just shut the (bleep) up?” I want to shout at the guy behind me, who’s just loudly narrated the entire movie plot to his girlfriend, including the surprise ending.
And, to be honest, I’m a bit spoiled now, so I also get annoyed when I can’t hit a remote button to pause the movie while I pay a visit to the ladies’ room, or go back for more popcorn.
Although popcorn buckets nowadays are large enough to supply an entire cruise ship at sea, don’t you think?
Still, I have a weird compulsion that requires me to eat all of it before the movie is over. This is possibly because it cost $49.50, but I’m not thinking about money as my fingers are scrounging around in the bottom of the bucket, looking for the last few kernels that aren’t hard enough to break my teeth.
Anyway, Cheetah Boy had just gone through a really bad day, so I treated him to a 50th anniversary showing of “Jaws” to cheer him up. I figured we’d both like it. Since it’s been remastered now in 3D or 4D or something like that, two tickets plus popcorn and drinks cost nearly $100. Now, that’s what I call a horror movie.
What I didn’t realize when we walked into the theater was that this particular one had just been renovated to add so-called “4DX” seats that not only move, vibrate, heave, pitch and shake during the show, but also spray water on you and jerk you around like a toy in a dog’s mouth.
During the previews, our seats were shaking so violently that I wished we had seat belts, and I was grateful that I didn’t have an upset stomach.
“This is like being on a roller coaster,” my son observed. Have I mentioned that I hate roller coasters?
It reminded me of riding the Indiana Jones Adventure at Disneyland. I don’t find being shaken (not stirred) to be a pleasant experience. Imagine the worst turbulence you’ve ever experienced on an airplane, and then add water being randomly sprayed on you along with gusts of wind.
You can turn off the water spray function, but we still got spritzed from the mist that arose from some mysterious location. We hadn’t bothered to bring jackets, since it was a hot day, but we soon found ourselves shivering, what with all the faux wind and water.
Did I like the movie? Yes. Do I ever need to sit in those seats again? No. I understand that theater owners want to offer unique experiences to lure folks back into their clutches, err, establishments. But I’ll be happy to sit in a stationary seat. I suspect my “Downton Abbey” seats won’t go anywhere.