And Those Wonderful People Out There In The Dark: A retrospective essay on film and movie theaters

And Those Wonderful People Out There in The Dark

by Brandon Hyde

This is not an obituary for movie theaters. This is an account of the experiences that make up the little memories, that I hold so dear and close to my heart. And if I write it down, it will hurt a little less, thinking about how one of my favorite pastimes in the world may not be possible in the future. 

I’ve always loved the quiet nature of movie theaters. There is a sense of leisure to a theater, that allows for memories to naturally form over time. These moments are only possible, because of the movie theater in the first place, with its unique specifications facilitating these occurrences. And when I think back, I find it impossible to separate the movie theater experience from my favorite films. Each moment is a snapshot of my love of movies coalescing into how I feel today.

It’s May 1st, 2008 and I am sitting in the Regal Oaks theater for the midnight showing of Iron Man. Midnight showings are a relic of the past, but I always appreciated being able to attend them. For this showing, I am joined by two of my older brothers, Sean and Ryan. I could talk about the movie itself, but that would only be half of what I appreciate about that memory. My experience with the film was made special by the people I was able to see it with, my own family sharing the same excitement for the movie. And this is what I truly appreciate about blockbuster films, the inherent social quality that comes with them. If you look back on the films that make up your movie history, there’s an inherent sense of not only where you saw these movies, but who accompanied you. Movies bring us together, with every moment being a shared experience of excitement, suspense, and wonderment. These shared experiences of watching films together shape and change us for years to come. 

It’s February 9, 2015 and I’m sitting in the State Theatre auditorium in State College. There’s a free screening of Sunset Boulevard, Billy Wilder’s 1950 noir, for a class that I am not a part of this semester. The film itself is a classic, but there’s a moment that to this day has been glued to my brain, like melted salt-water taffy. Nearing the end of the film, Gloria Swanson’s character, Norma Desmond, has descended into her own psychosis, believing she is about to film the ending scene of her own movie. It’s a haunting sequence, where Norma descends the staircase as she explains what she wants out of this moment, “Just us, and the cameras, and those wonderful people out there in the dark.” The scene itself was incredible, but it was the specific circumstances that put it over the top. Sitting in that theater, I felt an almost otherworldly feeling, as if the film had transcended through time itself and traveled to this specific point for everyone. The line works, because of the people in attendance, like a magic trick meant for those lucky enough to see the film in a movie theater. As I left the theater, the line followed with me, like a parasite sinking its teeth. My mind wandered to the original film’s release, thinking of the audience back then having the same experience. I like to think there was a moviegoer lucky enough to see the film’s original theatrical release, who reacted in the same fashion, with the same bewilderment and wonder. An invisible tether, that joins myself and someone else from a past era, that sat in the same dark auditorium watching the same film, feeling the same way.

It’s March 12, 2020 and I’m buying a ticket for Portrait of A Lady On Fire, at The Colonial Theatre. There is a sense of melancholy among the attendees, with customers keeping their distances away from each other. The theater is mostly empty, save for the employees at the box office and snack counter. I’ve been to this theater countless times, but knowing this will be the last visit for the foreseeable future, I take my time when walking through the lobby. The history of the theater hovers over you when you visit, like a spectre watching your every move. My mind wanders to the current news about possible lockdown, but I shake this out of my head and focus on the film. The greatest gift of movie theaters, that I have taken for such granted my entire life is their inherent ability to transport us away from our current place. There are no distractions: no phones to look at, no conversation to lead us astray, it’s only ourselves and the film in front of us. Movie theaters are a balm for the modern anxiety. For a short time, I’m able to escape into another world that feels familiar, but so far away at the same time. Portrait Of A Lady on Fire is a beautiful love story filled with longing, regret, and acceptance, but at the heart of it all reminds us that life goes on. And as I leave the theater, that idea stays with me, even with theaters being shut down with no foreseeable opening in sight, I’m reminded of The Colonial Theatre’s own history. A theater that has survived the last hundred years that has seen countless instances of theaters coming to a close, but it still stands, patiently reminding moviegoers of the durability of theaters.

Throughout the last hundred years, the world has seen companies, studios, and even genres come to fruition and then fade away into our collective memory. Movie theaters themselves, though, have stood the test of time with any sea change proven to be adaptable. And with that in mind, I do believe there is a future for movie theaters to once again be a part of our lives. Film is an ever-changing medium, with only brighter possibilities on the horizon that I hope to see first-hand on the big screen. It may not be for a long time that we will see the return of movie theaters, but that is how progress is made; inch by inch, step by step until the job is done. As Roger Ebert once put it, “I’ll see you at the movies.” I really hope I do.