Yearning for the Darkness

On a typical Saturday or Sunday, or both, 35 or more times a year, my wife and I would settle in with some popcorn and a coke, hold hands occasionally, and quietly soak in the experience of a film in a theater. Of course these are anything but typical times, and while there are more important things that have been taken away by the pandemic, for us this is a particularly galling gut punch.

Back in March, just three days before theaters would be ordered closed, Jayne and I were scheduled to meet at the Glenwood Arts theater, coming from different engagements. But literally as I was on the way, she texted me and said she no longer felt safe going, and we called it off. She proved to be something of a soothsayer, since soon no one could go. Theaters are allowed to be open now, but few have, and I have no idea how long it will be before Jayne will feel secure in enjoying one of our greatest pleasures as a couple.

We watch movies at home all the time, and we particularly share a passion for classic cinema of the 1930’s and 40’s, although we like all eras. Great films are a terrific entertainment in the comfort of your home, but they are something far more special in the darkness of a movie theater, And one of my choices for one of the finest films ever made, 1976”s “All the President’s Men”, is a perfect first example of why the in-theater experience is so superior.

Many people might surmise that a movie with great special effects, or amazing scenery, might be the best examples of wanting to see a movie in the theater and there is a certain amount of truth in that, but “All the President’s Men” falls into neither category, and still is a textbook example of the advantages of the theater experience. Likely if you have seen the movie, it was on television, and it’s great there, too. It is one of the movies that if I stumble upon it in the middle, I watch it to the end. A long roster of some of the finest actors of the the time populate it, it is a compelling true story, among many great qualities.

But some of the more nuanced strengths of the movie are made that much more strong by the theater experience. A plot device used repeatedly is the shot of the words being typed on to paper of the stories that are being written, in close-up, sometimes manually with an old time key smashing on to paper, sometimes a wire service machine clattering rapidly. On a big screen in a darkened environment, this simple device is amazingly dramatic. Director Alan J Pakula used a few things like this to elevate the film to a different level, and they work exponentially better in a theater.

Another one was the remarkable use of lighting, and editing. At its heart this is really a mundane story of dogged reporting, but somehow it is crafted into a real thriller. One of the better devices is the jarring switch from the scenes with Bob Woodward and Deep Throat conversing in a creepy, dark, parking garage, immediately cutting to a flourescently starkly lit newsroom. You almost jump out of your seat as if an explosion went off. Even sitting in a darkened den can’t replicate that.

Of course, there are great examples of actual explosions which resonate so much more greatly in your theater seat. I will never, ever, forget viewing “Saving Private Ryan" for the first time. I actually was supposed to be headed out for a round of golf on a Sunday afternoon. As I drove to the course the heavens opened up. My wife and little kids had made other plans so I had time on my hands, and I headed for the theater.

The unbelievably visceral opening scene of the film as the soldiers stormed Normandy Beach was powerfully almost hard to bear. I have seen it subsequently on television and the impact is still there, but it is muted. It wasn’t then. When the film concluded I was shaken, a feeling that I hadn’t felt since after a movie until I saw “Parasite” this past year. When the lights went up in the Lawrence theater back in 1998, many of the people there were just standing still, gazing as the last credits rolled out. An elderly man and woman were in the row in front of me. The man looked like he possibly was of an age to be a WWII veteran.
I looked down and saw the large bucket of popcorn they had bought for the film. It was untouched. The power of the moment was so real, that I called my wife and told her I wasn’t coming home until my children, one and five at the time, were put to bed. I thought I would break down in front of them. That can be the power of film.

Now, popcorn seldom goes untouched. It is probably true that for many people, the only time they eat popcorn is at the movie theater, and even if not to that extreme, it is likely a high percentage of the occasions that people consume it. It just fits with the experience. Moviegoers blithely pay eight dollars for a movie ticket, and then three times as much for wildly overpriced concessions. It just seems okay.

The shared experience is also a major part of the package. Be it sitting with a large group of like-minded people who are thrilled for the latest edition of “Star Wars” series, or superhero film, or laughing as a group at an excellent (or even not so excellent) comedy, sharing the fun with many other is a real joy. For some, that is the problem for them in attending. They complain that people won’t shut up, or stay off their phones, or munch their snacks too loudly. I don’t generally attend blockbuster type of films so maybe that helps me, but those instances are so seldom, I never give it a second thought, and even if it happens, it’s worth it.

I write movie reviews for this website, generally of films that are a bit out of the mainstream, since handing out advice on movies that people are going to go see, and like, no matter what I say seems like a bit of a waste of time. Maybe in some cases people will attend and enjoy a film they never would have seen without a thumbs up from me. But in any case, I like it. However, I haven’t written one about a new release since the theaters closed. I’m not inspired, I don’t engage on my television the same way. I really don’t feel like it’s fair to judge a film completely on a small screen.

But that is really beside the point. It is the pure enjoyment, the solitude even among others, the rapt concentration of the darkened theater that gets me. Classic films that I only previously viewed on television are classics still, but when I occasionally get the chance to see them in one of the special revival screenings they sometimes do now, they just come further to life.

I have seen movies in sold out houses, and I literally have been at weekday afternoon matinees where I was the only person there.

I will desperately take either one, or anything in between, sometimes soon. Please.