The Curse of the Cinema Snacks

I can still remember my first non parental cinema experience as a kid. It was the spring of 1989, and my girlfriend and I were going to see “The Little Mermaid”, the original, not the shitty replicas or rip-offs you get today, and we were going ALL ALONE. Filled to the brim with anticipation we strolled into the cinema in our pink sneakers with white unicorns, bought one teeny, tiny bar of chocolate each with our hard earned money from sneaky neighbourhood lotteries which for some unknown reason never had any winners (who suspects cute little girls?). With the sugary masterpieces in our hands we sat quietly nibbling them in our seats, enjoying the brainwashing Disney experience.

That was then. Going to the cinema these days is a totally different experience.

A year ago I went to see the new Batman film, “Batman Begins”, you know, one of those films that manages to please both sexes. The men get to satisfy their hunger for blood and meaningless violence, whilst women sigh and long for Christian Bale’s luscious, willing lips, but Christian Bale’s bedroom habits is not the issue here, so let’s move on. The problem is that tiny bar of chocolate that was tiny back in 1989. In eighteen years it has grown into a cornucopia of sugar orgies, and it hurts both the eyes and ears, my friend.

Sitting there waiting for the Batman to Begin (tee hee... oh come on, one cheesy line and you roll your eyes at me?), I was almost trampled to death by a wild herd of teens carrying a truckload of king size drinking cups, king size bags of chocolates and various other candy goo, the boxes of popcorn were like skyscrapers and the bags of crunchy, crackly crisps could be heard from miles off. Jealousy struck me at first, staring down at my, still, tiny chocolate bar with tears in my eyes, but then it hit me that I wasn’t sad because I wasn’t part of the sugar and snack orgy, I was sad because the cinema had lost it’s innocence.

Once upon a time a tiny chocolate lasted for two hours. Now, it’s gone before the first annoying ad rolls across the screen, and you used to be able to SEE the screen, free of huge bags and cups and greedy hands raping the aluminium and cardboard designs on the rows in front of you. Actually HEARING the film is also a lost bonus. Today you’re wrapped into a frenzy of crunching, crackling, smashing, popping, slurping and oral prostitution that makes you wish you could read lips...especially Christian Bale’s lips...mmm. In the entire room chocolate wrappers, empty bags, deformed or tasteless popcorns and empty bottles fly about looking for new homes, rolling down the stairs to the rhythm of the cinema swine’s’ chews. And I, lover of all sugary things and defender of their eaters cry my bitter tears in my seat, accompanied by an empty chocolate wrapper, and I pledge, just like Batman, that next time, next time I’ll get them. I’ll show them how it’s really done, because if you can’t beat them, join them, and then booby-trap them. They will beg for mercy when I come strolling with my very own popcorn machine, cotton candy maker, slurpee dispenser, hot dog stand, baskets of hot nachos, ice cream machine and crates of assorted chocolates, and I will whip their pleading snack craving bodies with hot dog breads and straws till they...

Ok, chocolate rehab for me...