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| AMC Movies, Prepare for Lift Off! |
Faced with a few options on Friday night, I opted old school -- a trip to the movies and ss some of you know, morally I'm OK with theater hopping in the multi-plexes. I saw an interesting lineup during my Internet prep, so I loaded up with cashews and almonds, pen and paper to scribble notes, and an oversized bike lock that felt like a Bandero bullet belt, and began my adventure to the AMC theater complex in downtown Morristown.
It turns out that the Theater Complex itself was the night's biggest star.
AMC, desperate to reverse a near double-digit % decline in ticket-paying movie customers, has sunk fortunes into upgrading the movie-going experience. Their creatives have clearly borrowed from the concept of luxury airliners in their attempt to keep the masses coming back. AMC's Mo-Town complex has been so dramatically refurbished and reconstructed that I felt a tad out of step walking my bike throught the complex. But I found a useful niche under a staircase 20 steps from the ticket line to lock up and tried to merge into the scene. Seconds later I was flailing at curveballs. Before being allowed to pay an entirely reasonable $11 ($15 in the urban centers of NYC and L.A.), I had to choose a seat from the tiny electronic display; different colors for either taken or available seats. Cursing the fading rods and cones in my baby-boomer peepers, the whole process took about four times as long as intended. Philosophically, booking a seat was the last think I wanted to do on a night devoted to movie nomadism: I was here to stick and move and take in a half dozen films. But eventually I committed to
Lucy, a sci-fi variation of
La Femme Nikita.
My next attempt in this covert operation went from bad to worse. Having purchased a ticket for an 8pm start and entering at 6:30 set off the queer meter. Big old Ken was taking tickets, a 300 pound black man who looked like a Jets walk on, and had an electronic two way radio earpiece and a shiny black security uniform. He starts speaking into his sleeve to get permission for me to enter so early. My rationale was pretty lame--to visit the concession stand, but in the name of revenues I was given the green light to bound up the stairs, albeit with a blown cover. I'm pretty sure they didn't have my SSN, but they had swiped my all-important magnetic strip.
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| Paralysis Through Analysis? |
There were six theaters both upstairs and on the main floor, but I had no intention to tangle with Ken again, so I was relegated to the offerings upstairs. The concession stands were both pricy and gleaming, and I was curious if I could get a half Sprite/half club soda to go with the mixed nuts I smuggled in. And for the first time at a theater, I saw the 200-option self serve soda fountains, which shaved precious minutes from the waiting line. I forked over a fin for a small (20 oz.) Cup and went to work. The bathrooms were futuristic as well, with the latest technology hand drying between the two wash basins. The ones where you dip your hands into 30 knott winds and are dry in ten seconds? The signs said they would help save the world. I felt too insignificant next to the supreme science to argue.
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| Fading Sex Symbol? |
Fully prepped, I headed into my first film of the night... I shuffled through the dark trying to adjust my eyes, and found myself in a first class flight on Virgin Airways. Rich red leather seating, 1.5 bodies wide, and fully reclinable. I saw couples lying down next to each other and was embarrassed. They could have conceived a couple of children before touching down in Heathrow for crying out loud. This kind of intimacy was definitely not what I had in mind for the night's nomad strategy. The film was titled
Sex Tape. Ugh. A (hopefully) last stand for
Cameron Diaz as an upper middle class house wife ripping her dorky husband for turning loose a sex tape via a bunch of I-Pads. This script was based on a very funny TV commercial where a guy tries to delete a stupid email from a million inboxes. The film version was brutal; I lasted less than 10 minutes.
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| Speaking Softly Carrying a Big Stick? Well, half right. |
Off to see
the Rock in
Hercules. You got lots of thundering ancient Mediterranean battles and death along the lines of
300 and
Achilles, but also some welcome wisecracking from
Ian McShane, which may have elevated the film beyond pure cartoon violence. NOTE: if you attend this film, stick around for the credits, full of fun music and animation, my favorite part. Again, the luxury air ship surrounding each screen was entirely off-putting, and I pushed on.
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| Quiet Farewell to the Legend |
I found myself in what I believe is the last film from the legend
Phillip Seymour Hoffman,
A Most Wanted Man. I love Hoffman, and grieved at his death, but could not connect with the film. Attractive cast, nuanced directing and super solid acting, especially by Hoffman.
Wanted Man captured the dark Hamburg scenes effectively, but the dramatic tension simply wasn't there, at least not enough to care about. I stayed longer than I wanted, and finally went to my assigned seat at
Lucy.
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| Hard not to Love Lucy |
And it was good.
Scarlett Johansson was smart and hot and
Morgan Freeman was better. Story almost worked, though it got a bit too
2001 Space Odyssey at the end, though how can you complain about traces of
Stanley Kubrick. I stumbled out around 10 pm to bike home in the mist, glad that my headlight still functioned. As I passed by Ken and into the lobby, I saw the poster for a movie I genuinely wanted to see,
Get On Up, featuring the funk and soul of
James Brown. I wasn't ready to tangle again with big ol' Ken, but maybe I'll be willing to spend another $11 and take in the full round trip to Heathrow, fully reclined, next weekend. If AMC and the movie industry is about to go belly up, at least they aren't going out without a
flight.
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| Busiest Man in Show Business |
