A wise man once said, “Forgiveness is divine, but never pay full price for late pizza.” All right, maybe he wasn’t so much a wise man as he was a wisecrackin’ Ninja Turtle. As I found myself dangling on the far edge of the 18-34 demographic, it proved increasingly difficult to forgive the missteps and mishaps of the Hollywood silver screen machine. Especially considering the price paid in both salary and soul to achieve such accomplishments in cine-magic.
Having been gainfully employed in Tinseltown for nearly a decade, my journey has proved to be every bit as fantastical as it has humbling. Days turned to months, turned to years, as if living in fast forward. Every chapter too quick to remember. Every memory too scattered to form any coherent recollection of my days working both in front of, and behind the scenes. Then, one day, I woke up and realized I was eight years into the dream had completely forgotten how I got there.
For a bushy-tailed kid from the suburbs who had his bright eyes locked and loaded on being the next Spielberg, Scott, or Zemeckis, a job in Hollywood was, as the French say, “so choice.” But unfortunately, there was such a thing as being too close to the action. And my insider knowledge coupled with a plethora of internet news and gossip sites like Aint-It-Cool and JoBlo – - well, my purdy lil’ head became so severely oversaturated with uber-privileged know-how, that I had completely lost touch with the boy inside who’s love for filmmaking is what sparked this blaze in the first place. All of a sudden, I was a cynical, grumpy ol’ codger whose insurmountable expectations had put a Darth Vader choke hold on the movie lover deep down.
It became easier to hate and more convenient to feel let down. Everything – - well, almost everything – - was a disappointment.
Turn the calendar to February 2011, Superbowl Sunday, my first real look at the trailer for Joe Johnston’s Captain America. Something inside me exploded. Walls crumbled. Tides turned. Like a Phoenix rising from the ashes, the kid inside me jumped up and cried “NEATO!”
T’was a glorious day, t’was.
It was a day that will forever live in the infamy of me. The day I decided to cut myself off from all gossip, all news, all stories, all anything and everything featured on the early-bird menu of the Hollywood’s insider café. It was the day I decided to eat my meals in stowage with the common folk. I was going to allow myself to be awed. Allow myself to be entertained. Allow myself to love going to the movies again.
And I would accomplish such a feat with a simple two-step program: Posters and Trailers.
The good ol’ days would become the good now days. I would leave my movie-going fate in the hands of the trailer editors and poster people. I can still remember the time and place and smell of Sbarro and Cinnabon in the air the first time I saw the posters for Batman, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. I remember spotting a tattered billboard advert for The Burbs from the backseat of my mother’s Taurus wagon. I remember seeing the first preview for Jurassic Park on the big screen and completely forgetting what movie it was I paid to see that day.
New trailers. New posters. There was excitement. There was anticipation. You knew nothing until the day you heard the words “Theatre 1. Enjoy your show.” When you plunked your keester in that seat and the lights went dim – - it was on! And whether or not the movie changed the world or even moderately entertained, at least it surprised you. At least you didn’t know what was coming. At least you had a fair chance to enjoy yourself.
So in the spirit of – - well – - all that stuff I just said – - I invite you all to join my mission o’ fun-having. Cast aside all your hesitations and preconceptions, light a match on your oily heap of expectations, and get lost in the magic of movies.
You’ll be glad you did.
Share on Facebook
