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“Is it playing at the Arclight?” He asks.  I quickly log on to the Arclight Cinemas website and click the selection for films “On Sale Now.” My eyes frantically search the listings for the movie in question, but I come up empty. It’s not there.
“No.” I type back to him, confident that my single word response will convey the severity of my disappointment. “Oh.” He writes back, confident that his single word response will do the same. A second later, he asks, “What do we do?”
“I guess we could… go to another theatre?” I suggest after a few minutes of deep contemplation.“I guess.” He says. He and I both know that it won’t happen. Ever since we began going to movies at the Arclight Cinemas, theHollywood, we have become incapable of enjoying a movie experience that does not offer us reserved seating, short previews, oversized comfortable chairs, and a cheesy introduction from an aspiring character actor/comedian. premiere theatre in Hollywood, we have become incapable of enjoying a movie experience that does not offer us reserved seating, short previews, oversized comfortable chairs, and a cheesy introduction from an aspiring character actor/comedian. It’s not for lack of effort. We tried seeing Wall-E at the AMC Century City mall, and it was okay, I guess. Once we got through the torture of sitting through five previews about various films with talking dogs. We attempted to stay awake during all three hours of Benjamin Button at the AMC theatres at the Promenade in Santa Monica, but our cause was severely compromised by the presence of an exceedingly large afro of frizzy hair that decided to occupy the seat directly in front of us. After spending countless Friday nights warming the cushy blue velour seats at the Arclight, we can no longer find satisfaction in ordinary theatres. The Arclight has turned us into a pair of snot-nosed movie brats. We didn’t intend for it to happen. How were we to know that we were opening up a can of really expensive (gummy) worms when we decided to go see Juno there in fall 2007? I never imagined I would make a habit out of spending $14.00 on a movie ticket, plus $2.00 for parking every time I got the urge to see a romantic comedy, action flick with zero plot, or artsy film requiring deep thoughts. I grew up on theatres with cruddy, gum-coated seats, I stood in line to buy my tickets just like the other riff-raff, and I regularly occupied undesirable seats in the neck strain section. Yet, here I am, 25-years-old, and I am emphatically opposed against enduring any of that ever again. Like many in my generation, I have developed an expectation that I deserve something better – a feeling that extends far beyond movie theatres. When I graduated college in 2005, I truly believed that the world was my oyster. I thought that CEOs and magazine editors and Les Moonves would bend over backward to deliver life to me on a silver platter. I thought, quite erroneously, that I deserved it. In the past few months, however, I, along with many of my peers, have received a large slap in the face courtesy of the economy. As my good friends and colleagues lose their jobs, for maybe the first time in my life, I am finally conscious of just how undeserving I am of anything I have. The world isn’t my oyster – it’s a tough place that requires a Herculean work ethic (or Madoff’s morals) to get the pearl. Of course, this doesn’t stop me from still really really wanting it. Not because I necessarily deserve it, but because I have hope for something better. I aspire for a life that resembles the Arclight experience that has become such a comforting habitual experience for my friend and me. I aspire for a life where I don’t have to wait in line for a crappy seat in the third row. A life where I don’t have to sit behind an afro of hair. And a life where I can pretend, for at least a couple hours, that if I try hard enough (or pay enough for primo movie seats), that the world really can be my oyster.
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