I’ve always loved cinema, but hardly ever cinemas. It’s no surprise to me that movie-going audiences are in decline. Ticket sales this year are only $4.8 billion, down from $6 billion in 2023. Apparently 65 per cent of Americans now prefer to watch a movie at home, compared with 35 per cent who say they prefer to watch it in a theatre. This is probably due to improved home cinema technology and the ever-shortening gap between when a movie is released in cinemas and is available at home. The chain of Curzon cinemas sold this month for a measly £3.9 million.
I can’t say that I find this trend upsetting. I don’t miss feeling my shoes sticking to the carpet, small children emptying popcorn down my neck or discovering that my underpants have become infested with fleas.
My worst experience as a cinema-goer came in 1987, as I attempted to watch Oliver Stone’s Vietnam movie Platoon in the crumbling structure of the Odeon, Holloway Road. The impact of the My Lai massacre was seriously mitigated by hordes of small children running about the auditorium, shouting at each other and brandishing weapons, including at least one knife. The child who menaced me with it looked around ten. It struck me at the time that the events on screen were, if anything, less hazardous than experiencing an Oscar-winning movie in an inner-city cinema.
Another event that jeopardised my love of cinematic entertainment came in an even less salubrious cinema on the Holloway Road, where a mediocre comedy suffered the indignity of having its last two reels reversed by an inattentive projectionist. When a customer on his way out timidly asked for his money back, the girl on the door said: ‘What’s the matter? You saw the whole picture, didn’t ya?’ Yes, but as Eric Morecambe remarked to André Previn, not necessarily in the right order.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in