Dear Movie Theaters

I am angry at you.

Not all of you. But most of you. Collectively, I am angry at movie theaters. And honestly, I really think I have good reason to be.

In this age of instant streaming, video-on-demand, Dish Network, Redbox and YouTube, I do not have to go to a theater to see a movie. I do not have to pay you upwards of $20 to see one movie in one night. I do not have to drive for half an hour or more for the privilege of forcing a pair of 3D glasses over my regular glasses and missing half the movie due to closing my eyes to combat headaches brought on by eye-popping graphics. I have an HD flatscreen TV with access to Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime, and YouTube, and I also own a Blu-Ray player. So, in short, screw you. I do not have to pay for the honor of seeing a film that you deem worthy to grace your silver screens. I can wait six months and see it on Netflix, where I get to watch all the movies I want for less than $20 a month. That's right, for $20 per one month, I can see unlimited movies, instead of paying $20 in one night to see one film that I probably had to go way out of my way to see.

What I pay for, in case you care even a single iota, is the experience. And in the last five years or so, holy mother of God has that experience been lacking.

So yes, movie theaters, I am angry, and I am sad. Because in the years since I graduated high school, you have been slowly, gradually stripping away everything I loved about seeing films in a theater.

You have taken away midnight premiere showings, instead beginning showings of a hot new movie at 7:00 the day before. Little hint, guys: just say it comes out on the 19th instead of the 20th. Stop kidding yourselves. Stop lying to us.

You have taken away my choice to wear a costume to a franchise premiere.

You have taken away my ability to feel safe in a movie theater by implementing your ridiculous "security measures" that make me feel more like I'm going through an airport than going to a movie.

You have even taken away my ability to see the movies I really want to see. You see, when you relegate films like Freeheld and Room to tiny arthouse theaters instead of granting them even short runs in your precious mainstream multiplexes, you force those of us who want to see them to drive ungodly distances just to see one film, thus adding gas to the ever-growing cost of seeing a film. Do we really need two dozen showings per day of the latest Paranormal Activity film? I guess so, because you refuse to even give one of those screenings to a real movie.

Back in 2011 I saw the midnight premiere of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows II at my local theater. Local, as in, less than ten minutes from my house. I wore my Hermione Granger costume, complete with homemade wand and time-turner, and stood in line for almost an hour and a half to guarantee that I'd get in to see the film--and good thing, too, because by the time midnight rolled around, the entire theater was sold out. Inside the building it was beautiful chaos. The entire place was decorated with Harry Potter paraphernalia, including Warner Bros licensed, life-sized cardboard cut-outs of the characters. Theater staff wore cloaks and wizard hats over their uniforms. Some of them directed us to the screening rooms with wands. Over half the attendees were in costume. There was a palpable energy inside the theater when we took our seats. Some of us were in tears before the film even started. Others couldn't stop shaking with excitement. And when the movie started, forget it. We were all wizards in that moment. We were all Harry, all Hermione, all Ron, all Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom and Ginny Weasley. We cheered when Neville pulled the sword out of the hat. We roared our approval at "NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH." We cried together over Fred, Tonks, Lupin and Snape's fates. We whistled and "aww"-ed at Harry and Ginny's last kiss. And when it was over, we gave a standing ovation. Some of us who'd brought wands pointed them in the air and said, "Mischief Managed." Perfect strangers hugged and cried on one another's shoulders. It was...there's no other word for it...magical.

That was the last time I saw a movie like that.

Six months ago I saw The Avengers: Age of Ultron at 11:00PM on April 30. Now, let me begin by saying I could have easily seen it at, oh, 6:30 or so had I chosen to do so. I didn't, however, because I wanted to see it with my boyfriend, who didn't get off work until 10:00 that night. We put together a little group: me, him, and I think four of his friends. And that was...it.

No, really. There were exactly eight people in that theater. At the freaking AMC. For Age of Ultron. In that whole room, there were eight of us, I was one of them, and I knew five of the others.

It gets worse. Since I knew costumes would likely get us booted out of the theater, I didn't even bring up the idea of dressing like the Avengers (since there would be six of us, obviously) for the premiere. I dressed in my favorite Avenger's trademark colors, but that was as far as I dared to go. I think one of the guys wore a Captain America t-shirt. That was it. That was as much as we could do. I have no doubt that if I'd showed up dressed like Black Widow I would have been turned away.

It still gets worse. The theater was practically dead. The reactions were mild, to say the least. I heard a smattering of snarky comments from Ian's peanut-gallery friends. I heard some laughs from the couple in the back. I did my share of laughing and rolling my eyes and clutching Ian's hand, but even I couldn't get into the "spirit" of things. How could I? There was no crowd, no mob mentality to roll with. Even the moment when Scarlet Witch finally gave in and joined the Avengers, even when Quicksilver bit the dust, even when Banner and Black Widow kissed for the first time, there were no screams of approval or cries of pain. It was just...there. Like any other movie we could've chosen to see that night.

I told Ian I needed the bathroom after the movie was over. It wasn't really a lie, because I did need the privacy of a bathroom. Safely hidden from his wisecracking friends, I locked myself in a stall and cried. I had so badly wanted the experience that I'd had when I saw Harry Potter that anything less was a crushing disappointment. But I didn't want the others, who seemed more than content just to see the movie in 3D, to know how hurt I was. So I pulled myself together after a few minutes and went back out, pretending that I was as impressed by the graphics and annoyed by the plot holes as they were.

Movie theaters, you have, in plain English, screwed up. You have taken what was once a thrilling experience and made it about as common as grocery shopping. "What are we gonna do tonight?" "I don't know man, let's go see a movie." "Ok bro, whatever."

For one of my senior projects in my last year of college I made a short documentary about the ever-changing movie distribution industry. I asked a theater owner what he thought would "save" movie theaters from the same fate as video stores and he talked about the incomparable experience of seeing a feature film in a theater. So far, so good. But instead of talking about experiences like the one I had seeing Harry Potter, he briefly mentioned something about escapism before going off on a long explanation of how movie theaters have to be more than a theater now. They have to include bars, restaurants, bowling alleys, arcades, party rooms. They can't just, y'know, show movies, don't 'cha know. They have to be more.

But...hold on...what if they don't?

I don't want to go bowling when I see a movie. I don't want to eat overpriced food before or after the movie as well as during the film. (If I'm paying $10 for a bucket of popcorn, you'd better put some freaking fairy dust on that shit.) I don't want to kill 20 minutes after the film playing a first-person shooter game. I don't want to get drunk on cocktails. And I certainly don't want to pay $50 when all is said and done, just to see one movie and have one meal. I don't want to have to drive 35 miles to see Room or Spotlight. I don't want to have to watch a 3-D trailer for Paranormal Activity. I don't want to walk through a metal detector or have my bag searched. I don't need any of that, and I certainly don't enjoy it.

I just want the energy back.

I just want to wear a real Hawkeye costume, instead of resorting to a black t-shirt and maroon jeggings.

I just want to see a midnight premiere at midnight instead of having to see it at 8:00 or 9:00 on a Thursday night with a brain-dead audience.

I just want to see a movie in a packed house with a crowd that's as thrilled to be there as I am.

I just want to go into a theater and, for one or two short hours, forget that people like the Aurora theater shooter exist.

I just want to feel like I used to feel when I walked into a theater: safe, and wanted, and happy. Like I belonged there. Like I was meant to be there.

I just want to go home.