![]() In the nineteen-teens and twenties, ticket buyers might have stopped by a local confectionary, drug store, or street vendor to buy snacks that they would, usually without subterfuge, bring into the theater. Or didn’tĪltar of films.” From Naz Riahi’s ode to the transformativeīefore the lobby concession stand became an architectural component of every movie theater in America, going to the movies involved food and beverages purchased outside of the theater, or - are you sitting down? - did not involve food at all. War and sat at whatever gathering we wereĪt, staring blankly into space. Morality police, beaten, her head shaved.Īnd every day, another boy came home from The temporary break from reality feels even more like an occasion when accompanied by food we don’t normally eat, in excess of amounts we usually consume. It’s an unusual combination: a transportive, emotionally immersive activity achieved with little effort and at minimal cost. Going to see a movie is a break from daily life without the effort, time, and expense of travel- a vacation in a seat, usually within minutes of where we live or work. ![]() Movies have always promised to transport us to other universes. As streaming services keep more people at home than ever before and when going to the movies remains tinged with the risk of contagion (and seems likely to be for the foreseeable future), what will happen to the seemingly indestructible marriage of movies and snacks consumed by groups of people in a public space? Will movie theaters survive, with or without concessions? And if we lose the ritual of moviegoing, what else will we lose? The push-pull between making moviegoing about seeing movies - projected on a big screen, in a comfortable or even luxurious setting, in the midst of others with whom we laugh, scream, and cry - and making moviegoing about nachos and super-sized sodas may have reached its breaking point. ![]() You might also say that we, the watchers and eaters, were complicit in our gradual descent into the snack bar rabbit hole. You might say that the movie industry, over the course of almost a century, exerted its influence over our minds, bodies, and pocketbooks to convince us that watching and eating were twinned activities. Buying a movie ticket wasn’t always an upsell opportunity, a chance to exploit decadent impulses in the permissive darkness of the theater. Thriller, something that would root me inĪ slightly staticky seat for two hours, inĪ room of people sharing the same experience,Īll glaring at the person crunching during House movie or a superhero movie or a spy Want to go to the movies, any movie, an art “I don’t want to prop up my laptop on theĮnd table and open Netflix, not even withĪ bowl of homemade popcorn by my side - I We fully associate the sensory experiences of smell and taste with the sights and sounds of watching movies, even though we sacrifice a degree of appreciation for each activity for the sake of the combined pleasure. It’s a presumed part of the experience despite the fact that it’s a distraction from the reason we’re in a theater in the first place. ![]() Buying concessions - or sneaking them in - is now fully wedded to the act of moviegoing. My mother refused to participate in what seemed like a trap: you pay to enter a space for one experience (a movie) and are encouraged, perhaps even compelled, to incur an even greater cost for another (eating and drinking). We pile into the car to commit our first petty crime of the day. She doesn’t bother to conceal the tote’s contents should anyone ask to look inside, the cat - and the popcorn - will already be out of the bag. She loads a canvas tote bag with three cans of juice, bendy straws wrapped in flimsy white paper napkins, and the bagged popcorn before announcing that it’s time to go. She portions the popped corn into three standard-issue brown paper lunch bags - one for her, one for me, one for my younger sister - neatly folds their tops, and secures each one with a single central staple. The machine whirs and popcorn jitters down the chute into a stainless-steel bowl, some spilling onto the counters and floor. She pulls the air popper out of the woodgrain kitchen cabinets, puts it on the white tile counter, and measures out a quarter-cup of kernels. It’s any given weekend in the early 80s, and my mother is prepping.
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