So long, Cinema World

The movie theater, my movie theater for the past 27 years, sadly and somewhat unexpectedly closed its doors for good on March 31st. I say "somewhat" because the current condition of brick-and-mortar anything is in constant jeopardy, particularly the movie theaters. That + the location of this particular movie theater existed in the heart of a decomposing strip mall amongst a city block of other decomposing strip malls populated with empty, long-dead stores and intellectually I knew this cancer would spread to the only living breathing reason left to venture into this post-apocalyptic wasteland. 

The theater opened in 1996 on John Fitch Highway - a once bustling retail hub in the 1960s and the location of the first McDonald's in Fitchburg, Massachusetts, but by the time Cinema World opened it had become a sprawl of parking lot hangouts for hooligans. By 2010 the Pizza Hut became a used car dealership, the Wendy's became a dentist's office for fugitives from the law. Most stores remain empty as the infrastructure crumbles and sinks. Every other attraction that had made this mile of road a destination was gone by 2015, except the movie theater. But it was worth it. 

I began going there in December of 1997, inaugurating it with Jackie Brown because the sole draw of this theater was that they allowed admittance to R-rated features to minors as long as an adult was present at the ticket window to give express verbal consent. And so it was, and there I went, and until I obtained laminated proof of adulthood I would go to Cinema World to witness the Graphic Violence and Sexual Situations that my parents nor any other grownups seemed interested in. 

The theater itself, while a 10-screen multiplex, felt dark and intimate and private, which was extremely attractive to me at a time when I was deathly uncomfortable being in public places. It was also a new business so most of the crowds remained faithful to the previous local theater I'd been attending up till that point - that point when new movies were actually more important than some precious nostalgia. They were also more important than the popcorn, candy, and soda, which I bypassed to avoid any unnecessary human interaction. Though in the years to come those poles would be so tragically reversed that it shouldn't have mattered what theater I was sitting in as I watch a sequel to Beetlejuice - I'm just here for the snacks. 

But therein lies one of the greater tragedies here: Cinema World offered a self-serve liquid butter dispenser and salt shaker, and as the new century pressed on and the quality of the movies became noticeably stagnant, the true draw of the theater experience became the hot liquid gold and the sodium. My routine was to fill the tub like a cereal bowl until the popped kernels were just about floating and then coat it in enough crystals that the yellow was no longer visible. Any other theater I've been to the cashier will ask if I'd like them to put butter on my popcorn, to which I psychically reply, "Yes, but you don't know what you're goddamn doing." 

It was cheaper, cleaner, and often acquired some "limited release" movies, but my initial preference for Cinema World was incidental. Eventually I came to appreciate it for exactly what it was... A typical multiplex is an overpowering spectacle of arcades and nachos and touchscreens and gift cards and outrageous prices and twenty thousand commercials, all to distract you from your feature presentation. Conversely, the arthouses with their organic popcorn and IPAs and worn out chairs and dysfunctional heating system and bad sound and small screens and gift certificates and outrageous prices all distract you from your feature presentation. Meat & potatoes & movies. And butter. That's all I wanted and that's all Cinema World had. 

It's the same when anything dies: your memories of that thing become bronzed and mounted and safe from modification; your grief glazes the good times as well as the bad with the same shade of sentimentality and they take on a preciousness that would be immediately absent from any new experiences. But the thing about this barebones cinema is that the most prominent memories it leaves me with are the movies themselves: Bringing Out the Dead, Blair Witch Project, Eyes Wide Shut, Ocean's 11, Memento, Shrek, O Brother, Where Art Thou, American Psycho, Unbreakable, Royal Tenenbaums, Revenge of the Sith, Catch Me If You Can, In The Bedroom, About Schmidt, There Will Be Blood, Dark Knight Rises, Django Unchained, Prisoners, It Follows, The Revenant, The Witch, Pearl, The Holdovers - and that's just a few of the more notable ones. I even remember the unmemorable ones like 8mm, Blair Witch 2, Bless the Child, Simone, Timeline, Gothika, Troy, Suicide Squad, Jigsaw, Solo, and three David Gordon Green Halloweens that all made the concessions that much more sweet and salty. 

Some local rink-a-dink movie theater shutting down is probably only pertinent to those within its geographical proximity - namely me. And the memories and experiences it gave are only really worth a damn to those who lived them - specifically me. But what is universal (particularly to someone who would be reading this) is the magical act of moviegoing, and if you cherish and idealize that experience as I do then you appreciate where it took place. Something as emotionally exhilarating as seeing a great movie, one that changes you and you'll rewatch and always remember the first time you saw it, is sure to leave your Metaphysical Footprint in the space where it happened. Think of the seat you sat in, the screen you stared at, the print that was projected, the speakers you heard - these elements and the air around them are filled with the vibes of you and others like you, and no matter what becomes of that building those vibes will remain. 

I assume in an attempt to cut even the costs of closing, the theater held a "yard sale" of sorts in which they put a price tag on every imaginable object that was ever part of the building: cash registers, excess toilet paper rolls, 3D glasses, the fountain drink machine, a box of posters for movies I never heard of, and various oversized signage including the giant metal Cinema World logo that hung above the entrance. 

I went there on a rainy Thursday morning. Inside I was greeted by a large old man sitting in a big upholstered recliner (which was also for sale). I was granted access to the main lobby - the hallways and theaters and bathrooms were taped off. They weren't wasting any money on lighting and heating (they never really did) so I navigated the cold dim cathedral of broken dreams, pretending to show interest in cordless phones and debit readers, but really I was just reminiscing. I felt like old Rose witnessing the Titanic wreckage, but I didn't recall specific memories, I just indulged in the accumulated history I felt around me, as though I could still smell the fresh popcorn. I fixated on the carpet and the architecture and the concession counter, particularly on the self-serve Butter Station that I loved so dearly. 

I'm pretty certain there was a Child World toy store in this location when I was very little. But that brings me to the main point: this structure housed some of my most prized nostalgia, but from a more objective angle, this is about yet another movie theater closing. That's something that consistently affects all of us, but from my own standpoint, I anticipate seeing a lot less new feature films now that the main attractions of sentimentality and caloric intake are no longer part of the deal. Sure my original childhood Cinema - the one I went to before Cinema World, the one where I saw Roger Rabbit, Edward Scissorhands, Dracula, Wayne's World, Forrest Gump, and a hundred others - is still operational (and geographically closer to me), but the reminiscence only takes me as far as my seat. Once the mediocre remake hits the screen and the blandness of my popcorn matches the movie I'm watching, I'm gonna want my $35 back.

- Paul