Like 67% of America, we went to see "Top Gun: Maverick" over the Memorial Day weekend. I made the reservations online, which had options every 12 minutes — apparently it was playing at 2,935 theaters within a 10-mile radius.
The one we chose had the new Dolby sound system, which is designed to dissolve kidney stones. If you're concerned about arterial plaque buildup, watch a Tom Cruise movie every six months in one of these theaters.
The movie was worth every penny — and a lot of pennies were involved. The tickets were $20 each counting the usurious "convenience fee." It's like your mail carrier charging you 97 cents a day to put the mail in the box instead of throwing it on the sidewalk.
On the other hand, the seats were great! I grew up watching movies in old theaters, sitting in rusty buckets with cushions as comfy as a clump of cafeteria napkins. The new theater-seat paradigm is the La-Z-Boy, wherein you recline to the approximate posture of an astronaut awaiting liftoff while the speakers administer maximum sensory punishment. Awesome! I mean, people were coming out of the "Downton Abbey" movie with nosebleeds.
This is part of the scheme to get you back in theaters. In the depths of COVID, perhaps, the managers met to consider the future. Long expressions all around.
"They'll never come back. They will be afraid."
"No, they will. We just have to give them something they cannot get anywhere else."
"A pneumatic tube that delivers Milk Duds on demand? Popcorn that does not resemble Styrofoam packing pieces blasted with a simulacrum of ersatz butter? Fresh hot dogs heated to order, instead of rolling eternally on a grill that calls to mind the labors of Sisyphus? Patrolling drones that automatically shoot taser darts at talkative patrons? Or — hear me out — good movies with interesting moral dichotomies that involve real people who do not run around in underwear shooting fire from their hands, and don't last 2½ hours?"
"Don't be ridiculous. We give them the La-Z-Boy combined with a sound system that gives them tinnitus for a day."
I'm glad they did. My Motorized Slab of Passivity was extremely comfortable. But the footrest didn't work.
My wife said I could take the one next to her, but no, they're all reserved, someone might come late. Besides, I've watched movies my whole life without my legs sticking straight out, I can deal with this. But I also thought: I will inform the management later, and they will be horrified I endured old-style leg position, and they will throw me a future Imax upgrade or something. My legs will not have been unelevated in vain.
In the middle of the movie — the part where Cruise is doing awesome things, because he's awesome — my wife whispered, "You can take the seat here, it's empty." But no; this is now a matter of principle. I cannot earn a refund unless I tough it out.
When the movie was over, I went to the lobby to tell the manager about the problem. He'll be grateful. He was also gone. The security guard said he'd take down the seat-and-row number.
"Do you want my e-mail so they can send their thanks in some tangible and redeemable form?"
His expression said: "I lied about remembering your seat and row number, don't make me lie about this."
I tell you, there's just no point in trying to be paid off for doing the right thing anymore.
