Confessions of a CinePlex Heckler

The word "Shhh!" is also a completely useless form of cinematic retribution against a person determined to munch his way through a big, noisy bag of potato chips while everyone else in the theater is trying to enjoy a vastly underrated 1972 Greek film directed by Pantelis Voulgaris (the name literally means "unsophisticated trousers" in Greek).

Yes, before attending a screening of Mr. Voulgaris's unforgettable film at the Roy and Nuita Titus Theater at the Museum of Modern Art back in May, I deliberately went out and bought the noisiest bag of potato chips I could find--a bag made of really crinkly plastic--and also went out of my way to sit behind the dorkiest, lamest, most pretentious cinephile in the auditorium. It didn't take me long to find him. My prey not only had thick glasses and a lumberjack shirt just like Woody Allen, but he also had a copy of the fifth century-B.C. Greek tragedian Aeschylus's Oresteia trilogy sticking out of his back pocket.

"Dead meat," I said to myself as I sat down directly behind him. Then, as soon as the Athenian skyline came into view during the opening credits of To Proxenio Tis Annas, I began to pry open the potato chip bag in the most excruciatingly annoying manner possible.

"Shhh!" a short, comparably dorky man seated a few seats ahead of me, hissed. To no avail.

"Crunch ..." came the first grating sound of potato chip against molar.

"There's no eating in this theater," snapped a woman a few yards to my left.

"Yes there is," I countered. "Listen."

"Crunch," came another collision of chip and canine, as I methodically began to work my way through the bag. Periodically, other people in the theater would hiss, "Shhhh" or "Be quiet," to which I would reply, "But I'm hungry."

All the while, I noticed that the man sitting in front of me had not reacted in any way at all. While people in other parts of the darkened theater would intermittently express their verbal displeasure, my actual target had no reaction whatsoever. This really pissed me off, so I gradually began to hunch forward, munching on my chips just a few inches from his ears. Still no reaction. Finally, the man who had originally cried, "Shhh" turned around and said, "Nobody can hear."

"The movie's in Greek, pal," I reminded him. "Potato chips can't interfere with subtitles."

I went back to eating my chips, and kept eating them until the bag was done. People kept saying "Shhh" to me, but the man sitting in front of me never said a word. Disgusted, I stormed out of the theater. It revolted me to discover that it was possible for one boorish middle-aged man armed only with a bag of potato chips to make life miserable for a roomful of 300 people. It made me believe for the first time in my life that we as a people have really gone soft, and are prepared to be browbeaten by ne'er-do-wells. People who would rather suffer in silence while a complete asshole munches an entire bag of potato chips while they're trying to watch a movie like To Proxenio Tis Annas probably don't deserve to have any civil rights. Or maybe they deserve to watch a lot more movies like To Proxenio Tis Annas.

The most awesome feeling of power that I experienced during my experiment was the afternoon I went to see the moose-honoring bomb Indian Summer at a midtown Manhattan theater. There was only one other person in the audience, a middle-aged woman, and she was sitting a dozen rows ahead of me, so in order to get out of the tiny theater she would have had to run the gauntlet right past me, and from her body language I could tell that she thought I had a hacksaw or machete on my person. Wishing to avoid a confrontation, and hellbent on watching this foolish movie, she chose to gut it out for almost two hours as I blistered her ears with withering remarks about this lame-brained 18th remake of The Big Chill.

"This movie is the 18th remake of The Big Chill," I would cackle. She pretended not to hear.

"This movie is the 17th remake of Peter's Friends," I hooted. Again, she pretended not to notice.

"This movie is the 19th remake of The Return of the Secaucus 7." She changed seats, moving to the other side of the theater.

"What, does Vincent Spano act better on that side of the theater, lady?"

This went on for about two hours. Finally, as the credits came up, she gathered up her coat and whipped past me.

"Don't you have anything better to do with your time on a beautiful spring afternoon than to watch Vincent Spano movies, lady?" I inquired.

She said nothing, but I could see from the look in her eyes that she didn't. On the other hand, neither did I.

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