It's Immaterial

We don't *need* to talk about Materialists

Something worth doing with movies that might become think-pieced apart is seeing them the day they come out, avoiding, while you can, reviews already written by those who are invited to early screenings. It takes a little mental gymnastics to advance-order tickets for a film I’m otherwise not dying to see, knowing it will be streaming via something I pay for soon enough, but usually, the social experiment of going in blind before that’s an impossibility is enjoyment enough. Plus, media purchases are write-offs if your occupation is writer.

On Friday night, when most people at movie theaters are wearing pajama-like attire and getting buckets of concessions, I met a date at the AMC Kip’s Bay 15 in a black tube top and pencil skirt. The 11:05pm Materialists showing had moved to a bigger theater, so our seats may have shifted, said a clerk. We expected a full house. Less than half of the room’s worn-in leather loungers were eventually filled.

Still, two women a couple rows behind us attempted to ruin the movie for everyone with outbursts of “What the fuck” and faux-contained laughter throughout. One attendee—a man on a date two rows up—turned around and threw a wadded up napkin at them, finally. They left before the end, gesturing at the screen as they walked (I think drunkenly) down the aisle. I can hear them now, describing the film to friends, speaking over one another: Dakota Johnson is a terrible actor! No one talks like that! It’s wayyyyyy too long! Why did she pick him?

To our left was a young woman, and to our right was a young man, each seeing it alone. She made a phone call before even standing up as the credits rolled; he left right after the angry girls did.