Photo by Simon Ray on Unsplash
Article by Phoenix writer Griffin Strauss ’25:
The smell of butter flavoring and freshly popped kernels overwhelms my nostrils as I step in line for concessions. There is no line, and I walk right to the counter. I walk down the carpeted hallway dressed with lighted movie posters, popcorn and soda in hand, passing auditorium after auditorium in search of theater number six; the corridor is empty, crumpled napkins drifting between walls like tumbleweeds in a deserted western landscape. Finally, I step into the dark theater, and the silver screen displays previews for blockbuster hits and indie gems. I am the only one in the empty theater, and the sound of the kernels between my teeth echoes through the vacant room. This is the reality of modern-day cinema.
I will never forget that mid-December night when I was nine years old. I stepped into a packed theater with my dad, took my seat, and sat waiting among 250 strangers with anticipation for the movie to begin. The horns blared, the floor trembled, and the crowd cheered as the silver screen lit up with a yellow text reading: Star Wars. The collective energy in that auditorium was unmatched, and the communal feeling of pure joy and excitement to celebrate a film we all loved so dearly was tangible. With every laser blast and exploding starship, my bones shook along with the hundreds of anonymous movie-goers surrounding me. This shudder was shared.
The beauty of cinema is its ability to be shared. Though literature, sculptures, and brilliant paintings are compelling forms of art, film is singular in its ability to affect countless people across the world simultaneously. Everyone in an AMC auditorium is witnessing the same spectacle of visceral explosions, hearing the same sounds of shrill screams and the stomping of some leviathan creature, and feeling the same vibrant emotions of loyalty and betrayal, victory and defeat, of love and loss. It is not like reading a book, solitary in your bedroom when you have some extra free time to kill. It is not like listening to a new Drake album on the car ride to work because you merely need to fill the silent void of an empty early morning highway. No,
cinema is designed to be cherished by all, to have several hours of our busy schedules set aside so we can experience something together.
When I am fortunate enough to convince a family member or friend to let go of their crammed lives for three hours to see a film with me, I am ecstatic. I do not worry about whether they will enjoy the movie, or even if I will enjoy it: I do not go to the theater for entertainment. What do I care if the film is a terrible slop or a masterpiece of dramatic filmmaking? I go so I can hear the reactions of people leaving the theater; I go so I can express my views on the film with whomever my companion is that day; and, more importantly, I go to listen to their interpretations. Like clockwork, the first question I ask my movie-going comrade upon leaving the theater is, “So, what d’ya think?” With that simple question, a never-ending conversation is sparked, and the flame continues to be fanned as we delve deeper into our individual experience with the shared film until the fire consumes the car ride home in blazing glory. It is exceedingly rare that we have meaningful conversations anymore, and film is the perfect catalyst for discussion.
Sadly, this communal experience is a dying breed. In 2010, North American theaters sold approximately 1.34 billion movie tickets; by 2023, that number dropped to 830 million. People do not see the necessity to share cinema anymore, and it is because of the rise of streaming. Streaming is cheaper, more convenient, and less risky. In 2023, the average price for a movie ticket was $11.90, while a Netflix subscription was only a few dollars more at $15.49 for nearly unlimited content. The libraries of Hulu and Paramount Plus are so vast one will never need to worry about missing out on content or disliking a film— if you hate a movie, you can turn it off and switch to something else without losing a dime. Why drive twenty minutes to the theater and risk wasting nearly $12.00 on a terrible movie– not including the price for concessions– when you can watch Leonardo DiCaprio stretched across the bow of the Titanic with just a few clicks? At home there are no previews, there are no long lines for popcorn and soda, and there are no inconveniences. All you need to do is command Amazon Prime Video to play what you wish it to play, and in the blink of an eye, it appears on your screen.
Watching movies on the big silver screen is no longer practical when at your fingertips is an endless arrangement of film and television just waiting to be vomited out by the television and consumed mindlessly while slouched over your phone on an imprinted couch. Though cost-effective and convenient, there is no community there. Where is the discussion following the film? Where are the collective gasps at the shocking plot twist? Can you imagine what it would be like if we learned that Bruce Willis was a ghost all along and Haley Joel Osment was seeing a dead person the whole time— but we learned this alone on our sofas while scrolling TikTok? Sadly, I can, because it is the world we are inching closer to every day. This is not how cinema is to be witnessed.
When you are squished between two strangers and the sounds of crunching popcorn and slurping sodas surround you, art’s spirit is released. If art is not shared, there is no reason for its existence. Films need to reach people, and they need to be taken in together. Films need to be discussed upon leaving the auditorium and on the car ride home, they need to be mulled over late at night when that one scene is keeping you awake, and they need to be experienced with others because that keeps them alive. When people stop going to the theaters, we will not share films, and the essence of art will disappear.
I long for the day when the smell of butter flavoring and popcorn kernels overwhelms me, but I must wait in a long line to get my movie snacks. I yearn for the day when I walk down that carpeted hallway and must look over countless shoulders to see what movie the poster on the wall across from me is promoting. I pine for the day when I have to squeeze past ten people to reach my seat and put my popcorn on my lap because a random guy to my right occupies my armrest. I await this day because that will be the day movies are shared again.
But what do I know?
