Frequently Wrong, Rarely in Doubt

There is a particular brand of modern heroism required to sit in a darkened room for two hours and look at only one thing. We call it “cinema,” but for those of us with minds like caffeinated hummingbirds, it feels less like art and more like a hostage negotiation with a projector.

I find myself currently ensnared in a spiritual conflict. On one hand, the universe has seen fit to provide us with a new Anaconda film starring Jack Black and Paul Rudd. To ignore such a cultural milestone feels like a slight against the very concept of joy. It is a pairing that promises the chaotic energy of a garage band mixed with the ageless charm of a fine wine. I must see it. And yet, I would rather do almost anything than actually watch it.

The traditional movie theater is, frankly, a barbaric institution. It asks us to pay a premium to sit in a chair that has seen too much history, surrounded by the heavy breathing of the general public. It is only palatable if one engages in the minor fiscal coup of renting the entire theater. There would be a quiet, Gatsby-esque dignity in watching a giant snake swallow a comedian when the only other souls present are those you have personally vetted for their ability to whisper at an acceptable decibel.

However, the “home viewing” alternative is fraught with its own unique perils. To watch a film at home is to enter into a Monogamous Gaze. It is a commitment. It demands that I set aside my phone – that shimmering portal of infinite dopamine – and grant a single narrative my undivided attention for an hour and a half.

I have grown accustomed to the “reality” TV model of consumption, where the stakes are low, the colors are bright, and I can reasonably check my email, solve a crossword, and perhaps reorganize my Magic cards without losing the thread of why a baker from Ohio is weeping over a fallen soufflé. A movie, by contrast, is a jealous mistress. If you look away for three minutes to research the casting history of the lead’s cousin, you have missed the “inciting incident.” Suddenly, you are adrift in a sea of contextless plot points.

Ultimately, however, one must occasionally suffer for one’s faith. If the price of witnessing the sublime intersection of creature features, Jack Black’s kinetic energy, and Paul Rudd’s eternal boyishness is ninety minutes of forced stillness, then I will simply have to endure the asceticism of the un-scrolling mind. I will white-knuckle my way through the cinematic silence, suppressing the twitch in my thumb and the siren call of my notifications, for some things are weightier than my own attention span. To witness a giant serpent attempt to digest such comedic royalty is a rare privilege that demands a certain nobility of spirit; I shall sit, I shall watch, and I shall grant the reptile my undivided attention – if only because a spectacle this glorious deserves better than to be the second-most interesting thing happening in the palm of my hand.