The more I go to the movies, the more I find myself turning around to tell people there to shut the fuck up. 

It doesn’t matter what the movie is, or what theater.  Even at “upscale” events like the tribute screening of GILDA at the American Cinematheque, I had a dopey, overweight black guy in glasses behind me launch into a running commentary on the characters (“Oh, he’s in trouble now...”).  To himself.

“The sex goddess!”  He announced breathlessly at Rita Hayworth’s first appearance onscreen.

“Would you please not talk through the entire movie?”  I asked him.  Politely, in case he actually was retarded; sometimes it was hard to tell, and I didn’t want hurt feelings on my conscience.  Retarded or not, he glared like he wanted to leap over the row and murder me.  But he piped down.

It happens often enough for me to have worked out an informal system for dealing with it, an escalation of force.  I try to be civil about it.  I figure there’s always the chance they don’t realize they’re being annoying, and by being polite about it, you allow them to not feel like they’re eating shit when they shut up and everyone goes home happy.

I saw MIAMI VICE last week at a Producer’s Guild screening for industry types; I got in because my friend is a member.  It was packed.  We arrived on time, and still the only seats we could get were way down front, second row. 

There were two empty seats next to me, and as we settled in, a couple in their late 50s climbed over my friends and me to fill them.  Then the wife climbed back out.  Then she returned, and climbed over us a third time.  Once she got there, she told the husband she thought she saw two seats farther back from the screen, and so they both gave us a final climb-over to get out.

A second couple about their age or older were standing at the end of the row behind us as the studio rep picked up a microphone to introduce the film.  The seat on the aisle was open, but the only other available spot was about five people down, in the middle.

“Could you move down a seat, please?”  The woman asked.  “We’ll sit here on the end, but if you all could just move down one seat...”  For a minute or so, everyone just stared.  People generally pick their spots because that’s where they want to sit.  Not one seat down, not one seat up, but right where they are.  Asking them to move is one of those small things that can also be kind of a big deal.

The pair of them stood, each holding a large soda and popcorn, her too old for her jet black teased hair and him wearing a deep tan like a gold chain under his baby blue V-neck.  He seemed like a guy who maybe owned a boat, something small; he also seemed like the type who wouldn’t be able to shut up about it if he did.

“One seat, please?”  She asked again.  “We’d really appreciate it.  It’s just four inches!”  She may not have known her way around a ruler, but she had a point.  In the scheme of things, one seat really didn’t make much difference.  The people who needed to move, moved.  She thanked them sincerely, and he did too.  They settled in behind us and continued to speak at normal volume, even as the lights dimmed - usually a bad sign.

The movie started, and it’s a loud movie.  It opens in a noisy disco and goes to a machine gun massacre from there.  Being down front meant being closer to the speakers, too.  I could still hear the jackass behind me, but I tried to ignore it.  After about ten minutes, I’d had enough.

“Would you stop talking during the movie,” I said.

He leaned forward.  “What?”

“Would you stop talking,” I repeated.  He only stared at me, so I turned back around to the movie.

“No,” he said finally to the back of my head. 

There was no point in even taking it further then.  It was clear he wasn’t going to stop, and he didn’t.  The guy was a dick, and telling him to shut up just wasn’t going to make a difference.  He was one of those East Coast jerkoffs who’s lived out here for years but “grew up” in South Philly / Brooklyn / New Jersey and hasn’t let anyone forget it for a minute since.  The type who clings to his accent and figures 3,000 miles gives him a license to be a prick.  People in L.A. enjoy the novelty of personalities like these, no matter how abrasive they get.  They call them “characters.”  He’s such a character, they’ll say.  But back home they’re not so uncommon, and we just call them assholes.

I set my teeth and hoped the movie would be loud enough to drown him out.  It almost was.

The film was like an extra-long episode of the TV show, except none of the characters in the movie got to have any fun.  This one was big, hard-staring, undercover cop action straight though.  I liked it alright.  It was easy to get lost in the noise and shadows of the shootout scenes, but maybe that was because we were sitting so close.

Once the credits rolled, I turned to catch my neighbor in his seat.

“Listen man,” I told him, “you came in here looking for courtesy when you needed seats, and then the whole movie you act like a low-class asshole.”

He was stunned, and got pissed off immediately.

“Who the hell are you?!?”  He yapped, pulling himself up out of his chair.  His wife became nervous.

“If you want to talk when you’re watching a movie, you do it at home, greaseball!”  I told him.  He was a greaseball, so I knew he would hate being called one.  It’s one of those insults that only bothers you if you think it’s true.  Or if it is.

“Big man!” He said sarcastically. “I can do whatever I want!  What are you gonna to about it?”  He pushed out his small chest.  “Go on – take a shot!” 

“O.k., o.k., let’s everybody calm down,” the woman urged, taking his wrist to try to pull him back into his seat.  There was a hint of panic in her voice, but he was so ridiculous I found it hard to believe she didn’t have to deal with this kind of thing all the time.  She didn’t have to worry this time, though; I was just winding him up.

“Go home, greaseball,” I said, and turned up the aisle to exit, leaving him to puff his aging orange chest at the emptying theater.

My friend had watched it all.  He laughed a little as we left; his adrenaline was up, too. 

“Man,” he said, “if I knew there was going to be action off the screen too, I would have left the flip-flops at home and come prepared!”

“It would have been all over the trades tomorrow – ‘VICE screening sparks violence against the elderly!’”

“That would be the first excitement over a Guild event, ever,” he said.

Back in the theater, a few people remained in their seats to watch the credits roll while someone sang a Phil Collins cover.

copyright,  © 2006 Wyatt Doyle

for information on Wyatt Doyle's collaboration with Stanley Jason Zappa, STOP REQUESTED, click here.