Who’s Working The Door? (Post-Pandemic Cinema)

            I can’t pretend to predict what life will be like after months of self-isolation. I will, however, be glad not to turn on my TV and see another Zoom-created collection of celebrities (their entitled faces in little boxes filling up the frame) all singing “Imagine” to lift our collective spirits. Every one of these co-starring Lin-Manuel Miranda. Nor am I looking forward to the next season of Rupaul’s Drag Race with such contestants as “Corona Pandora,” Christina Quarantina.” Hallucinogenica Pandemica,” or simply “Ima Getana Virus.”

            But what about going to the movies? Already some big movie chains have been threatening bankruptcy. And small theaters, showing more independent movies, have been hemorrhaging cash for a while. Will they use this pandemic as an excuse to close shop? It’s hard for me to imagine a world without movie theaters. And don’t tell me that streaming movies in your own home is better. Sure, it’s more convenient. But where is that collective excitement that exists in a packed theater of expectant moviegoers when the lights go down? That collective hush that accompanies the opening credits. The laughter, or screams, elicited from more vocal members of the audience which starts a ripple effect. I’ll even miss the massive grumblings from an exiting theater audience who all shared the same contempt and savage disappointment for what they just witnessed.  It’s hard to envision life without someone wisecracking about a recent movie, “You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll kiss 18 bucks goodbye…”

            Now some have suggested that Drive-In movies could make a comeback, and I am all for that. When I was a kid I loved climbing in the trunk of the car with my brother and sisters so our parents could sneak us into the Drive-In without paying for us. (I still have a little PTSD about that. I could never concentrate on the movie as a kid because I kept waiting for the police to swarm the car and demand to see our ticket stubs). But years later I have such fond memories of romantic nights at the Drive-In. That handjob I got during The Incredible Two-Headed Transplant. That hickey I got after seeing I, A Woman, Part II. The screaming fight I had with a boyfriend during Three On A Meathook, where we were asked to leave by the management after numerous complaints from neighboring vehicles.

            But for ordinary movie theaters how do you lure customers back? May I make a suggestion? Maybe they should institute a door police like the old days at Studio 54. Some cretinous man in front of the theater in front of a velvet rope pointing to who could enter or not. There’s nothing like making movie-going so rarified and difficult that it inspires hordes of desperate souls to line up and humiliate themselves just so they could brag that they got in. Imagine the challenge of going out, praying that you will be the one chosen to be able to buy a ticket to Cats 2. The entry policy should be modified with each film. Just the right mix of children for Frozen XII. “No- too needy…Sorry, too studious….Too middle school…Too ugly.” Just think of the boom for child psychologists dealing with all those traumatized tots. 

            Imagine the humiliation of having to slip money (or the name of a Netflix executive) to a person at the door of a multiplex in a frantic attempt to get inside and eat stale popcorn and Raisinets with the beautiful people. There should be one revolving disco ball spinning in the lobby so that when you enter you can be temporarily blinded by the refractive slivers of light. 

            Perhaps theme nights. Having to wriggle under barb wire to see the movie 1917. Prove that your phone is on mute and with reams of masking tape over your mouth in order to see A Quiet Place II. Don’t make things easy either. In order to see the sequel to The Black Panther theatergoers will have to point out where Wakanda is on a map. Anyone who just punches the doorman in the face instead gets in immediately. 

            The one thing encouraging that came out of this hellish pandemic is that no one gives a shit what celebrities were doing during the quarantine. It’s impossible to be sympathetic to anyone suffering boredom in their 8-bedroom mansion with a pool. My dream is that the Kardashian universe of naval-gazing celeb-u-nots will finally be a thing of the past. In the new abnormal, gossip columnists can report of all the famous people who couldn’t get into a movie. “Mel Gibson was seen slinking away from the Regal Cinema in Malibu when he was rejected by the doorman.” “Mariah Carey was laughed away when she approached the velvet rope for the new Wonder Woman film.” “Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones were pelted with Milk Duds when they tried to slip under the velvet rope in order to see the new Kevin Hart comedy.” Now, that’s entertainment.

            A torn ticket stub taped to your wall could suddenly be a symbol of “having arrived” in the city. Imagine stumbling out of a movie theater after a “Dusk-To-Dawn” Bong Joon-Ho film festival. There are actually cabs lined up ready to whisk you home. You’re exhausted but exhilarated. A little wired from the countless carbonated soft drinks. But what a night! From the window of the cab it’s so heartening to watch shops opening. People filing out of their apartments, dressed and on their way to work. For a second it almost seems normal again. There is also the giddy thrill of trying to recall the array of famous scientists, health-care workers and Trader Joe’s employees you were sitting next to at the theater. And it was the third night in a row you didn’t have to wait in line at the snack bar.