The Death of the Theater Experience (And It's Not the Movies' Fault)

There was a time when going to the movies felt sacred. A communal act. Lights dimmed, and for two hours we were transported together—not as friends, but as strangers united in story.

But today? It's a battlefield of distractions, entitlement, and what I can only describe as cultural rot.

I went to see Fantastic Four recently, and while I had my criticisms of the film itself, the real villain wasn't on the screen. It was the audience. It was the experience. And that's what I want to talk about—not as a snob, but as someone who used to live for this.

And here's the thing: I endure all of it because I want to support the work. I want to show up for the artists, the actors, the crew, the writers, and this entire industry that I love. I'm genuinely excited to experience a new film on the big screen—not wait three months for a streaming release.

Let's start with these so-called "luxury" theaters. Reclining chairs. In-seat dining. You can summon a cocktail mid-film like you're on a flight to Cabo. Sounds great on paper—until you're the one sitting behind the couple who decide to order a full course meal 20 minutes into the movie. Suddenly, a tense scene is underscored not by the soundtrack, but by the clatter of plates and arguments over the nachos. Theater chains call this "elevated." I call it chaos.

Worse, these setups encourage people to come in late, fumble through their orders while the plot's already underway, and then loudly ask, "What did I miss?" You missed everything, Karen.

This isn't just about food. It's the unchecked selfishness. People text throughout the film. Scroll TikTok with brightness at full blast. Laugh at the wrong moments. Whisper like they're in a coffee shop.

Case in point: I'm sitting in this theater, trying to enjoy the movie with a friend. A guy near me takes a work call. Full voice. No shame. I try to play it cool. I don't say anything at first—I'm hoping someone else will. I look around. Nothing. Silence. Everyone's just pretending it's not happening. My friend, God bless them, is getting anxious because they can tell I'm getting more and more pissed. They're worried I'll say something and it'll turn into a "thing." And I get it—nobody wants tension in the middle of a movie.

But the guy keeps talking. Full sentences. Names. Deadlines. Finally, I lean over and tell him, politely but firmly, "Can you take that outside?" And guess what? Now I'm the jerk. Now I'm the monster, because how dare I interrupt his moment? Words start getting exchanged. And I just sit there thinking—who needs this?

Christopher Nolan, Martin Scorsese, and others defend the sanctity of the theater—and I get why. The screen. The sound. The ritual. But they're arguing for a version of cinema that barely exists anymore. What we have now isn't a sanctuary. It's a free-for-all. And no amount of Dolby Atmos can drown out the fact that people have forgotten how to behave.

I'm not saying theaters should disappear. I don't want that. I love this art form. But something's got to give. Either the industry steps in with stricter policies, or audiences need a serious cultural reprogramming. Because right now, the only thing scarier than the horror movies I watch… is the crowd watching them.

So no, I can't defend the "magic of the theater" anymore—not when it's being actively destroyed by the very people it was made for. Until we, as a society, relearn how to share space, I'll be watching more films from home. Alone. In silence. With my own damn snacks.

Disclaimer:

This is a rant.
My rant.

If you agree with me—awesome.
If you don't—also awesome.

But here's the thing:
I'm not looking for advice. I'm not seeking enlightenment.
And I'm definitely not here to debate my own lived experience.

Have thoughts? Drop a comment. I love a good conversation.
But if you're gearing up for an argument—save us both the trouble.

I'm not here to convince you.
I'm here to say it how I see it.
And then move on.