Psychosis in a Not-Quite-Abandoned AMC
Or, that one time I saw a not-great horror movie at a not-great, horrific theater.
When I was younger, I was told, “How you take off is how you go.” If you want to succeed, start strong. This nugget of wisdom has, fortunately and unfortunately, determined a lot of my life, from academia to my career to roadtrips. If you begin a journey strong, there’s a good chance things will be okay. But the same can be true for rocky starts, bad omens, and the universe telling you to just stay home.
Recently, this phrase came to mind when I decided I would treat myself to a matinée showing of Damian McCarthy’s Hokum. It was an innocent decision, really. My husband was out of town, and as luck would have it, I would be able to squeeze in a showing at a movie theatre before the film made that all-too-quick jump to digital. In fact, it was the last week the film was being screened anywhere near me. The problem? It was not at my normal, homey, local theatre, a blessed Cinemark that is nearly connected to a bookstore.
Living in a large city, there are a staggering number of cinemas available to catch a movie. Seriously, there’re like four within a twenty mile radius. You’ve got options here. Until you’re like me, and you’ve procrastinated seeing a movie until there is only one place still showing it. And that place happens to be the same theater where you and your college roommate risked your lives to get to a subpar Marvel movie because you went to the wrong theater on the first try (remember, there are a LOT of options here). That should have been sign number one that not all would be well.
Not one to balk at traveling out of the way, I put my past history with this particular AMC aside and got in the car, braving the elements to see a horror film. Oh, yeah. Sign number two: it was storming. Why I wasn’t paying attention to these not-subtle hints, I don’t know. But you’ve made it this far so bear with me.
Pulling up to the theatre, I noticed some changes since 2018. The Mexican restaurant sharing a parking lot with the AMC is now a sports and daiquiri bar. The Popeyes, Taco Bell, and Starbucks combo still stand but were notably less busy than I recall all those years ago, the sign of a bad time in suburban Louisiana. How you take off is how you go…
Walking up to the establishment, I couldn’t see another soul. No one was working the ticket window facing the parking lot, no one else coming or going. Even the computer ticket kiosks seemed to have given up on this spot, serving only to hold a discarded Popeye’s box. This place was desolate. But for Adam Scott in a horror film, I would do anything. Apparently.
Adam Scott
Inside, things got worse. There was no one there. No one scanning tickets, no one serving popcorn, no one at the bar (is that just a Louisiana thing, to have a bar in your movie theater?). Now, you might be asking, “Anna, did you just have a bad dream about the also recently released film, Backrooms? Are you getting things mixed up?” To which I answer: I wish.
I wandered around the weirdly sticky tile foyer which gives way to outdated carpet, eyeing up the fancy Coke machines that allow you to add whatever flavoring you’d like to your drink, a beacon of hope in this forgotten landscape. Walking up to the counter, I looked for a bell as if this was a hotel, a sign of life, anything. Nothing. No tired teenager who smells a little like nacho cheese to scan the QR code from my online ticket purchase. My Converse didn’t even make a sound as I wandered around, trying to find someone, anyone to please take my money and let me have some popcorn and a crisp Diet Coke. To say this experience was eerie would be an understatement. It was as if I had slipped into someplace utterly empty, impeccably wrong.
After enough hanging around, debating with myself if I should just get the hell out of there, someone came out the back (back of what, I don’t know; I didn’t know if I was even real at that point). I was handed warm popcorn which I covered in off-tasting butter and a giant cup to fill with the delectable soda of my choosing. I persisted, making my way to the designated theater, taking a seat, and sensing that, you guessed it, I was the only one there.
Typically, I’m a pretty big advocate for going to the movies alone, especially to see horror movies. All you have to manage is you; there aren’t any worries or concerns about another party’s reaction, fear, or tolerance. You can just experience. Unfortunately for me, this experience and the movie itself were things I wished I could commiserate with someone with.
Now, this isn’t a movie review so I won’t unpack my full thoughts on Hokum here, but what I will say is that I began to question my sanity in the middle of this semi-abandoned AMC. Big questions about the horror genre in general came to mind: where does our psychology start and end when we go to a place where we know we’ll be frightened? How much of our expectations do we carry into a film, and how different would it have been to see that movie in a crowded theater? Was this always going to be a doomed experience for me? The take-off for this particular adventure was indeed rocky, signaling an ending of equal discomfort, but other possibilities of varying outlandish degrees started to coalesce in my brain as well. Did I fall into a weird pocket dimension? Was my kindergarten fantasy of being the only one to show up at school finally granted to disastrous results? Rod Serling, were you directing this?!
The film ended, eventually. And to add insult to injury, the foyer of this dreaded AMC was still filled with daylight, a fact that assaulted me further (such liminal experiences should be reserved for the darkness of night). I got out of there as quickly as I could, a weird taste from stale butter and ginger-lime Diet Coke lingering in my mouth. As soon as I was safe inside my car, I immediately called my dad. I needed to know the world around me was still there, that no one decided to play a big prank on me and leave me all alone to deal with this film, this place, this void, by myself.
Thankfully, he answered. He knew I was going to the movies that day. He asked how it was. And in my best Pete Campbell from Mad Men voice, I replied: “Not great, Dad.”
How I took off was how I went.
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