You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
The Front Row.
Sitting in the front row of a movie theater is not preferable unless you are a middle school boy with ADD or a Star Wars Junkie on shrooms.
Normally, I like to get to theater early. I like to pick my seat and get snacks if choose.
The idea is to be relaxed, and not feel rushed.
That’s not what happened on this day. I get a late start. It’s like starting a race a lap down, all you do is panic and race recklessly trying to make up the time.
Add time to a perfect storm of movie influences and it begins to cascade.
It’s Saturday, a high movie viewing day. It’s raining, a great reason to askew yard work and go to a movie. It’s a matinée meaning tickets are half price. Gone Girl, it’s a hot new movie starring Ben Affleck.
The movie starts at 4:20 pm.
I hope to leave at 4pm. The best laid plans, right?
For a myriad of reason, I don’t get out of the house till 4:15.
15 minutes behind schedule.
Yikes.
I am going to be late. I dislike being late to movies.
I’m not sure why?
Something must have happened to me as a puppy that I have buried in my thoughts.
Did I get separated from friends or family members going to an early movie of Planet of the Apes?
Was I forced to sit in the front row of Towering Inferno, singed by the cinematic flames?
I don’t know what happened to me. I am like a dog afraid of a newspaper after getting spanked as a puppy for messing the carpet.
I have particular cinematic needs, but nothing to severe. I like to walk in with the lights on. I like to casually walk up the stairs, with a thin crowd before me. I like to climb the stairs, hundreds of options at my disposal. 10th row? 15th row? 20th row? Seats by the aisle? Something in the center?
I love the option of being early
I don’t mind sitting for an extra 15 minutes. I will watch the local ads for the local church, for the local insurance agent, for the local pizzeria.
I am especially pleased to be seated early when the lights finally do go down, the theater is full, and the losers come in late. They stand in the dark and stare aimlessly, hopelessly, searching the seats.
“You think we can find four together?”
Yeah right! Losers.No such chance.
They stare and stare and point, and cause a distraction. They are like a canker sore in your mouth that your tongue can’t avoid.
“Sit down I want to scream.”
or
“Get in your car early.”
They stand like zombies in the bog because the theater is so dark. They can’t see. They have to wait for a daylight scene to illuminate the rows.
“Idiots” I muse to myself. I love the fact I’m set, popcorn in hand, ready to watch the trailers.
Just to emphasize my point, I push my ass back into my soft reclining seat like a fleshy rear end exclamation point.
Today I am them. I am the loser. I am the ass.
I arrive at the theater. The parking lot is packed. Cars are circling like metallic sharks, hunting for spots that now exist a postal zone away from the lobby.
I park closer to the McDonalds by the boulevard than the theater. You know you are not close when the smell of large fries fills your thoughts.
OH MAN!
Must be the weather, I think to myself. Everyone wants to enjoy a rainy day and see a flick.
I park. I begin the long walk. It’s drizzling and cars are driving recklessly looking for spots.
The lobby is a zoo. I have prepaid for my tickets. The only thing I have done well so far.
We walk into theater 11. It’s dark. I hear the rumble of a Brad Pitt trailer for his new WWII film.
As we walk up the ramp to the theater, I see the lights flicker from the screen. I am stressed. The movie has started. I hear angry cannon fire from a battle field 60 years ago. I feel the stress of the battle, the bombardment of sound.
I feel like finding a seat will be a battle, will be a military exercise.
Maybe the theater won’t be packed. I hope. I am wrong.
I get to the top of the ramp, round the wall, and enter the theater. I look at the seats.
It’s Packed.
I see a sea of faces, bathed in blue, staring at the screen.
I see a an empty seat here and there, but it’s hard to focus. The theater is mostly dark, only briefly illuminated by a daylight scene on-screen.
Suddenly I’m one of those people, one of those idiots I hate to be. I am standing on the periphery, trying not to be conspicuous, to go unnoticed.
No such luck. I am a gigantic flashing beacon of stupid. I feel the eyes of the crowd staring at me.
“Don’t you even dare come up here, Loser.”
The thoughts of the crowd permeate my brain. They are telepathically loud and I feel frustration.
The good seats are all taken.
I sigh.
I look to the right, to the cheap seats, the ones on the floor by the screen.
There are not many options in the 1st four rows, either.
My eyes gaze seat after seat. I see heads and bags on seats, presumably saved for patrons in the lobby buying candy.
The only seats I can readily see are in the very front row. Enough all ready. I was late. This is my fault. Just deal with it.
I walk toward the screen. It is gigantic. It is a wall of light, the images brilliantly surround me like a phosphorescent blanket.
It is disorienting.
BOOM.
A tank fires a volley of rounds at the enemy.
I think I wet myself a little.
The noise tremendous. The speakers must be in the floor before me.
I grab a seat and sit down.
I’m relieved to be seated, but I am not happy.
I initially hate this location. It’s louder than a real battlefield. It’s so bright, I need SPF to enjoy the show without getting burned.
I sit in the center chair and lean back.
The screen is so big, it fills up every bit of my vision. I suddenly wish I had bigger eyes, that could inhale more visuals.
Where’s Mr. Magoo when you need him.
I look up at the screen rising 30 feet into the rafters.
I can’t focus on anything. It’s too big, too close. The images are pixilated like blowing up news print.
I swing my head to the left and look at the bottom left of the screen. That’s a barn in the field over there.
Suddenly there’s an explosion.
I crank my head rapidly to the right.
The screen is a blur as my eyes spin to the other side of the projection.
I see a tank blowing up enemies.
I move my head to the center. My eyes follow the illuminated, pixellated path.
There in the middle of the screen, I see the striking features of Brad Pitt, 50 feet tall. He is smiling wearing an army uniform, leading his tank company into battle.
I gaze up, scanning the illumination. I see a squadron of planes flying air support.
It so loud, as if I am having a picnic lunch in the engine compartment.
I am suddenly in a World War II battle. I am an extra in the movie, standing on the side of the explosions.
I am waiting for the director to yell “cut.”
I am not happy. I don’t like the visual. I am having trouble seeing the screen in one breath.
My head is on a swivel, dancing to the left, to the right.
Normally, watching a movie is relaxing.
Now my neck hurts.
I am like a nosy neighbor in an apartment made of glass.
Left, right, center, up, down.
This is exhausting.
From the rear of the theater, you simply let the visual fill your eyes.
No effort, no quick head jerks left or right.
But now I’m working, head moving, eyes darting.
I need to catch my breath.
My eyes are sweating. My neck already needs a deep heating ointment.
It’s going to take effort to follow this story, I can tell.
I stretch my feet out as far as I can.
No limitations. Nothing but space.
“Well that’s kinda nice,” I say in a whisper.
This is better than a normal row, I think to myself.
The film begins. Graphics dissolve onto the screen. As fate would have it, they are situated in the lower right of the screen. I have to crank my head to the right.
One graphic dissolves, another replaces it. It’s completely on the other side of the screen, on the lower left. I swing my head all the way to the left. I hear my vertebrae crack.
I’m dizzy. Oh man. I hope this movie stays focused in the middle of the screen.
The story begins with Ben Affleck going to a bar and ordering a drink.
I don’t like my seat, but it is growing on me.
Ultimately the story is compelling and the plot begins to suck me in.
Soon the story is around me. It’s like a virtual experience.
I suddenly forget that I don’t like the front row. I forget that I was late and this is my penance.
I am now immersed in the experience, the visuals filling my eyes like I’m a 3-D avatar.
I am a fly on the wall of the story. The picture is so immense, the characters now larger than life in front of me.
Normally from the good seats, you notice the theater crowd.
You notice when the guy in front of you moves his head. You notice when the girl four rows down checks her iPhone. You feel the guy behind you kick your chair while moving his legs. Someone is always saying excuse me to go to the bathroom.
Not in the front row.
This is more engrossing than I expected. It’s a full experience of sight and sound.
My periphery is filled with nothing but movie. I am Girl Gone.
The characters are in an alley in New York, I’m there with them. All I see is snow flakes to the side of me.
When the movie ends I am pleased. My neck is a little sore. My eyes need some visine and a rub down.
I stand up and move readily. No need to worry about the crowd shuffling down the aisle.
I have 20 feet of floor to work with.
As I make my way to the exits, I see the credits roll up the screen.
I wouldn’t choose to sit in the front row again, but at the end of the day, the experience was fun and unique.
Instead of being a part of the crowd, I am part of the movie.
It’s like I’m an extra on the set. I was a witness on the sidewalk. I was a fly on the wall. I was a part of the cinematic fabric.
Being a part of the film in the front row?
Life’s Crazy™