The sound,
if hushed, is unmistakable. Like the sound of the captain on the flight tannoy
announcing choppy turbulence ahead or next door’s house alarm going off in the
middle of the night, you know that the shape of your immediate experience is
about to be altered by forces beyond your control. It may come in the form of
giggling, gruff voices or popcorn being spilt. But, rest assured, when the
sound of disruption slips its way into the cinema theatre it is piercingly
familiar.
It would seem that, nowadays, if you don’t talk during a film at the
cinema, then you are in a minority. For most, the box office is not only the
vendor of a mere flick ticket, but a gateway to passive unrest. Whether they are
parents, couples, professionals or OAPs, a trip to the movies is that apt
opportunity to trade-in the burden of responsibility for the anarchy that boils
over when a teacher leaves the classroom for two minutes. For, the teacher has
abandoned the classroom - the traditional ‘usher’ has become somewhat of an
enigmatic figure in the cinema in recent years. In fact, one could argue he
left the screen almost twenty years ago and never came back. He may be spotted
before the trailers begin, and reappear at the closing credits. But he is
nowhere to be seen for the two hours in between when you need him most. Like a
father who waits in the hall whilst his wife goes into labour, contemporary
ushers are reluctant to get roped into the nitty-gritty of child birth. It is
now a case of ’shut the door and leave ’em to it’. Report any noise and to the
rescue comes a 21st Century Adrian Mole, torch shaking in his hand,
as he apologises to the perpetrators for having to ask them to keep the noise
levels to a minimum. With castigation such as that on the sidelines, who would
dare a put a foot wrong? It is that age old defiance; - ask the public not to
talk, and they will willingly lose themselves to a double bill of Tourettes.
No genre offers any asylum. From the baby sick and flying Farley’s Rusks
of Happy Feet, to the intrusive distraction of somebody explaining every
scene of Casino Royale to the donkey that accompanied them, there exists
no anodyne to the contagious evil of these bullies. You think subtitled drama
would harbor a bit of hush? You’d be wrong. The Diary of Anne Frank tenders no refuge; Schindlers List
will still prove too intense for the Heat-reader on the row behind. Who gives a
hoot about theHolocaust when it looks like Amy Winehouse’s fella might get
bail? Multi-plexes are now a pantheon for these brutes to wave their
single-fingered salute at the mindful minority who still acknowledge the
pillars of respect and self-control, whilst they showboat all the restraint of
a fig leaf. To some extent, it is hardly surprising. To morons such as these, just the impact of a
visual image before them is more than enough to kick start the stimulated urge
to say something. It doesn’t matter what. In fact, anything will do. Preferably
though, utter nonsense tends to do the trick. At times all that is missing is
Roy Walker stood to the right of the screen begging you to say what you see.
Because for the most part, the visual incitement of cinema-going is much like
placing a picture puzzle before a laboratory monkey; where reserved judgment
and primitive excitement collide, there is only ever one winner.
Cinemas may still be theatres. But no longer is their priority to
showcase the latest films. They have become forums, which are
concession-dependent for their profit. Candid in their ability to match your
mortgage payment for a small Asda cola, and shameless in their drive to push
loud, messy and garish three course meals onto the very same John Motsons who
will commentate their way into the screens. Once inside, the film plays a poor
understudy to a gamut of commercials and in-house promotional reels - on
average, a movie will in actuality begin over twenty minutes after the printed
showing time. Showing times - much in the same way as certificates - mean
nothing in today’s climate. Turning up half an hour after the advertised time?
Worry not, you will be free to barge in any way. Never mind the disruption to
those who paid to watch a film uninterrupted from start to finish. ‘Chris and
Claire’ decided to see what was on at the last minute, and that folks means
another £15 in the till. £30 if they’re peckish. Is it any wonder the noise
issues are as they are, if you usher in people who not only arrive forty
minutes late, but still buy food? This is why the theatre managers themselves
are just as much to blame as the gaseous chatterboxes themselves. It is like
buying Bart Simpson a drum kit for Christmas and telling him not to make a
noise.
(David Brierly is a UK-based freelance writer. Send comments to him at david.brierley29@hotmail.co.uk. Visit his profile page.)