I always read the rotogravure (I love that word) section of The New York Times (the magazine section). An interview column by Deborah Solomon sometimes captures my interest. She asks tough questions of a celebrity and they usually respond with acerbic or pointed answers. She asked Mike Leigh, a filmmaker and playwright, a series of questions. He is British and his last film was Vera Drake, a story of a back-street abortionist in the 1950s.
At the end of the interview she posed this logical question to him, "Have you seen any good movies lately?" His answer, "I go all the time. I like to go to theaters where they don't eat popcorn."
The electric bulb over my head lit up and shone brilliantly. On that previous Saturday evening I had gone to see the touching movie about Johnny Cash replete with all his wonderful music, Walk the Line. Being a fan of his music I looked forward to hearing it and seeing his sad story.
Instead I was surrounded by popcorn. Bags and super-bags of endless popcorn. Before the film started I moved away from a lovely young couple who brought a mountainous sack of it into the row directly behind me.
I thought I was safe but when the movie started popcorn eaters sprung up all around me. The rustling of the bags as they dipped into them was bad enough. They still had to chew the darn stuff. Unfortunately, none of the group believed in chewing with their lips closed. My side glances to these people had no effect. They chewed and reached into the bags as if it were a symphony. The chompers were everywhere.
How could they hear the wonderful country tunes that were emanating from the screen?
Inside their own skulls they were hiding the music that they paid $9 a person to hear.
The movie houses always make it a point to warn you about "talking during the show." And yet they are deliriously happy to sell you monstrous bags of food to gnaw at during the playing of the film, at exorbitant prices.
OK, I am a terrible spoilsport and curmudgeon but I was happy to hear Mike Leigh speak on the same subject.