Revelations in Reels

It's been a while since I was a kid.

This afternoon, I finally caught Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire at the local second run theater. Scrunched down in the chair with my head propped up against the seat back, I began to notice little voices, followed by little heads bobbing down the aisle. Pretty soon, I was surrounded by a bunch of mites, giggling and gibbering away in whatever language 6- and 7-year-olds speak these days. Maybe I need a sign: Dangerous! Crotchety Old Movie Fan. No Loud Talking Within 20 Seats. Please Feed With Popcorn.

But any fears that I had dissipated as soon as the Warners Bros. logo appeared. The theater went silent, and for the course of the movie, it stayed silent.

Well, outside of a couple of frightened titters from too-young children. Whoops....

The last time I sat with people mostly born within the current decade, the movie was Star Wars: Episode 1. All the bad press and fanboy wailing had reached my ears by that point, so I was surprised when I actually enjoyed myself. Months later, in the safety of my cave, the glaring weaknesses of that film flared up at me, leaving to wonder why I hadn't noticed them the first time.

Most likely, it was the kid's fault.

Two seats away from me back in that theater, a little boy had clutched his bucket of popcorn, yapping away to his mother in whatever language 4-year-olds spoke in those days. But when the lights went down and the Lucasfilm logo appeared, the boy had one expression the entire time: wide-eyed with jaw in lap. I think I had more fun watching him than the movie itself.

The kids' movies of my childhood were no different for me--from Time Bandits to Willy Wonka to, yes, the original Star Wars, they took me on a ride that I didn't quite understand but still enveloped my imagination. As the years went by, my tastes grew old, demanding more complexity, more originality, more intelligence...mature challenges instead of simple wonder. Nowadays, when I watch those movies from my youth, there's more than a touch of nostalgia in my enjoyment--a laminated gloss covering the unwanted imperfections.

When I first found in the ether alike minds corrupted by strange cinema, I wrote a few movie reviews, even planned to start up my own little cornershop in the b-movie community. But after the first couple, the reviews came harder. My harddrive contains at least three unfinished ones, mere notes and phrases barely making sense. This despite the fact Netflix was sending me about 15 to 18 DVDs a month (yeah, I'm one of those). The reviews had become a chore. I didn't enjoy writing them, even when I wanted to praise the film to the seventh level of heaven.

Recently, even the Netflix hamster's wheel slowed. It was bound to happen. My own stash of DVDs isn't some "collection"; I've seen them all at least once, and most several times. The past few months, I've been revisiting those movies, remembering why they found their way into my home in the first place.

That's when I realized I was in another wheel.

I love films. A day spent watching new movie after movie is a good day. The last few months, however, I haven't enjoyed them as much as before. I had no idea why until today. I had not only forgotten the movies I love, but why I love them.

I'll never regain that kid's unfettered wonder, when something shiny on screen was enough. I wish I could return to the days when I didn't notice the seams in Godzilla's suit. Seeing Harry Potter with those who hadn't yet misplaced their basic delight, though, reminded me that I don't have to go that far. I was them once. And one day, those kids will look back, maybe scoff at the now-dated computer graphics, and pick apart how unfaithful Mike Newell and Company were to the original novel. Or, they'll remember why they went to see the movie in the first place.

I'll never be a kid again. But I can damn well try.