I recently went to see Jojo Rabbit for the second time. It is a lovely movie filled with emotion. If you have not seen it, I recommend doing so. I would be surprised if it did not receive award nominations in several categories. That is the extent of my review; I am not one for crafting film critiques. I do not have the insight nor knowledge to be clever about cinema, nor the patience to make the effort. Instead, I share the following true story from my second viewing that you might smile and find security in knowing that you are not me.
š¤« Do not talk
šµ Do not text
āļø Do not arrive late.
There is an Alamo Drafthouse in my neighbourhood. It is really conveniently located and usually where I go to watch movies. If you are not familiar with the Alamo Drafthouse cinemas, they are the kind of place where you can order drinks and food during your movie. The kind of place with seats that can recline a bit. And the kind of place where, once the movie starts, you have to shut up and keep your phone off or risk being "ejected from the theater without a refund". I love it. No distracting chatter. No random bright lights from phones because some people apparently might get the most important notification of their lives while sat watching a film, but not so important that they couldn't be at the movies.
I was sat in the back row enjoying the film. I had a french press of decaf coffee to sip at, and a ridiculous amount of M&Ms to eat from the kind of box you would usually get from a take-out restaurant. It was quite lovely. A good film, some bitter coffee, and some sweet chocolate. What is not to like.
The film had my attention. I had already seen it and I was still fascinated, trying to spot things I had missed the first time, connect threads that I had not fully connected, seek out the intent of its director in every scene, and generally pretend that I got it more than I did1.
I reached for a sip of coffee. I reached for some M&Ms. I stared at the screen.
I was riveted.
And then my M&Ms felt hot and very wet.
I had apparently reached into my hot decaf coffee instead of the bucket of M&Ms, even though they were in entirely different places. Why would my brain sabotage me like this? I don't know. Why do I have an imaginary child? Some things just cannot be answered.
Now, in most circumstances, when my hand has been immersed in hot liquid, I might make some sort of sound like, "Ow!" or "Fuck me!" But remember, no talking. That and I did not want anyone around me to be alerted to the British man that just put his hand in his coffee for apparently no good reason.
I had never been in this situation before. A dark room. A movie. A few hundred people. A wet, slightly burning hand. I had not received training for this. Remaining calm, I removed my hand from the coffee. That seemed like a solid first step. I then moved it to my side and started carefully shaking it so as not to rouse suspicion. I then wiped it under my leg, then reached for an M&M and ate it. Crisis averted.
Relaxed and content that I had dealt with this new experience deftly, I lifted my hand for a quick sniff check to see if it was noticeable that it had been marinated in hot coffee. The screen flashed brightly, illuminating the audience (which included me, in case you forgot how cinemas work), and I made eye contact with the stranger in the seat next to me. Their eyes said, "Dude, why are you sniffing your hand?" and who knows what my eyes said. I feel like they said, "Shit, this is weird. Sorry. Just checking it doesn't smell of coffee," but I am pretty certain the other person saw, "I did something really perverted with my hand and I want to smell the perversion."
We both sat in silence for the rest of the movie, per the rules. We never made eye contact again.
This has happened to you, too, right?
- I never can quite get things as deeply as they appear to be intended, I feel. [↩]