Dionysiou, 1

Marianna Dionysiou

Professor Patterson

English 5124

27 September 2022

Movie Theaters
were once a staple place for hanging out.

With the rise of renovations and streaming services like Netflix,

the number of classic 2000s theaters is slowly dwindling, and the

overpriced snacks collect dust, remaining uneaten.

Some weekends, my mom would drag the two of us—my sister and I— to the movie

theater. On occasion, we'd bring a friend. It was the place to be. Of course, I didn't know it at the

time. I'd have rather been at the mall or the grocery store. Only later, in retrospect, do I miss the

almost monthly tradition, the sticky-sweet floors that clung to my light-up pink sketchers, the

overpriced candy that I somehow always roped my mom into buying, and the high schoolers

with their shiny, blue-dyed, swooped-bang, hair that I wanted to emulate.

But I loved movie theaters. On rainy days— days we couldn't play outside— we'd buckle

up in my mom's gray Honda and excitedly race to the nearest movie theater. Mostly, we'd go to

Cinemark. We could have walked ten minutes to rent a CD at the library, or we could hope that

something we'd like would come up on TV. But then, we'd have to suffer through the seemingly

never-ending commercials that always made the movie feel undeniably disjointed. Sometimes, it

felt like we'd spend more time watching commercials than the actual movie. This was different.

We could go late enough that we'd skip all the commercials. Go early enough that we'd have
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ample time to enjoy the sweet, buttery popcorn that left our tiny grabby hands streaked with oily

goodness. The popcorn was full of heaps of salt that left our throats feeling like a desert, making

it feel like a necessity to slurp the entirety of our oasis: a blue raspberry slushy. I wore my blue-

stained teeth like a badge.

With little restraint, my five-year-old self would eat all the snacks during the

commercials, waiting for people to come and impatiently watching the seats fill up. Kids like me

dressed up in princess costumes. Adults like my mom carefully hid Mike and Ikes, and other

treats into their seemingly never-ending purses. Sometimes, I nervously chewed my nails, fear

radiating from my seat that they'd catch us and kick us out of the theater. Clink handcuffs onto

my wrists and declare me a criminal. They never did, and the thrill of this "illegal activity" made

me feel invincible. Sometimes I wonder if the people working there knew. This was the

quintessential nature of a 2000s movie theater.

In 2008, we'd cycle between Cinemark and Showcase. They weren't anything fancy; they

didn't have the sleek black cushiony reclining seats. Most of these movie theaters were the same.

Red or black seats—with seemingly ancient worn-down cushions— filled every crevice of the

room. Spilled and forgotten popcorn decorated the floor. The drink holders were almost always

broken and almost always had sticky residue left over from someone else's drink. Back then, the

rooms were full of people. Now, the sticky drink-holders remain drinkless and abandoned in

some of Cincinnati's shut-down and deserted theaters. Soon after their closing, Salerno describes

how some of these forgotten relics had "wooden boards... placed on the windows to keep out any

would-be explorers/photographers interested in seeing into a lobby where tickets and popcorn

were sold." Movie theaters like the once boarded-up Showcase Cinema don’t even exist

anymore. They have now been demolished and torn down to make way for something new. In
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this case, the Mercy Health Hospital campus. The Northgate Theater was also destroyed, and in

its place sits a newer modern one, according to Salerno.

Is it only a matter of time before all classic movie theaters of the 2000s close? Will they,

too, follow the pattern of being boarded up, only to get demolished later? They might become

like drive-in movie theaters. Primarily forgotten, only to be remembered occasionally when

people want to partake in a vintage activity. It's not that I believe all movie theaters will become

extinct, rather that they will modernize. But I remember the ones with semi-uncomfortable chairs

and the crowded rooms with loud chewers, rude commenters, and ugly criers. Going to the

movies was a communal experience. I would laugh with some viewers; I would cry with others.

Sometimes, for the rude ones, I'd crane my neck into my mom's personal space and complain

about them. I'd hear others doing the same. I'd wait in the long line for slightly stale, oversalted,

over-buttered popcorn. Now, I can order food sent directly to me in a sleek black reclining chair.

Most of the time, the seats remain empty, save for opening night—a sharp contrast to what once

was. There's no one to cry with and no one to laugh with. Rarely is there anyone to complain

about. 

And it's not only that movie theaters of the 2000s are being demolished and modernized.

Other ways-—cheaper ways— to watch movies have emerged. Gone are the $12 per person

tickets. Now, the whole family can watch multiple movies for just $9.99 a month on Netflix.

Everyone can cuddle up on the couch, walk with fuzzy socks on non-sticky floors, make popcorn

in the microwave, and call it a "night-in." On other streaming sites, like Hulu, my friends watch

shows like The Bachelor, excitingly critiquing people's dating life. Streaming can be a communal

activity, but most of us sit on our beds and binge show after show alone. There isn't anything

wrong with that. I, too, binge entire series and movie after movie. But secretly, I hope theaters
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like the scattered Cinemarks around Ohio remain untouched, scarcely renovated. Long live the

sticky floors and overpriced candy and salty popcorn.

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Works Cited

Salerno, Ronny. Cincinnati's Forgotten Theatres. 26 Nov. 2020,

https://ronnysalerno.com/queencitydiscovery/2009/03/cincinnatis-forgotten-theatres.html.