4 The American Blockbuster In hindsight as an adult, I realize that a matinee (economic and class conscious- ness) would have been cheaper, but nonetheless, we went on opening night. The Capri Theatre was a unique building in the town. The British spelling of “theater” together with the name of an Italian island made it seem more exotic. (I, of course, did not know these things then.) It was square and squat, painted mostly white with red lettering. There was nothing ostentatious about the outer appear- ance except the dozens of rows of naked light bulbs slanted on the recessed front entrance. They appeared to be guiding you, like lights on a runway, toward the ticket office and then into the theater (most basic of attractions: bright lights). The four of us—my parents, my brother, and I—walked up to the ticket booth: “Two adults and two children for Jedi.” My dad paid with cash out of his wallet. Once inside, the place was decorated with red carpet, and the walls were cov- ered with posters of previous and upcoming films. The refreshment counter was front and center, selling buttered popcorn, fountain drinks, chocolate, and candy. As per usual, these items were overpriced compared to what one could purchase outside of the cinema. Unlike other families, mine never sneaked in snacks. Again, as a child, I did not notice the price of the candy. Rather, I was too excited about the film, my small Coke, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and the size of the tub of popcorn my dad had purchased for us to share. I did plan on sitting next to him, so I would not have to get the popcorn secondhand. After giving our tickets to the vested employee, who tore them and admitted us through the red velvet stanchion, we went to the entrance of Screen 1. My mother, knowing the size of our bladders and the size of our drinks, ordered my brother and me to use the conveniently located restroom before we got settled in our seats. The theater itself was lit from high above in the dark gray ceiling, illuminating the seats and the curtained screen but not much more. Other dark, red curtains with luxurious folds hung from the ceilings down to the floors along each side. I quickly and furtively lifted one up to see what was behind it: a plain, concrete block wall. My dad chose four seats in a row of five in about the middle of the room but off to the side, close to the wall. With the empty seat and the wall on one side and my dad on the aisle seat, we were safely blocked in from strangers (secu- rity). Once settled to the left of my father, I noticed the glowing red exit signs on either side of the screen. Craning my neck behind and up, I could see the shadow of the projectionist preparing the film. Given this was opening night for a Star Wars film, the crowd that had been in the lobby with us buying refreshments now joined us, and the seats, arranged in their amphitheater fashion, filled up. The lights dimmed, my brother loudly slurped the last of his Coke from the paper cup, and the curtain rose. All eyes were on the screen in front, the most brightly lit object that towered over us all, casting its reflected light on the eyes of everyone there. From the tiny tube in the booth behind us, the moving pictures were larger than life, captivating. After the perfunctory, theater-specific advertisements and codes of conduct (no smoking, location of emergency exits, stay quiet), there were a few previews and then the feature presentation. I was rocking in my thickly cushioned seat, enabled by the fact that it was the kind in which the bottom half would automatically fold up with- out weight. By displacing my weight on the shared armrests, I could get it to raise
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