If you were to go to the concession stand of any major cinema chain in the UK, you might find yourself in a conversation that goes a little like this:
“Could I please have a medium popcorn and drink.”
“Anything else?”
“No thanks.”
“Ok well that will be a share in a diamond mine and cursed silver from the tomb of an Egyptian pharaoh. However, for just 65p extra you can upgrade your medium order to a large.”
After impoverishing yourself in front of the service worker, the manager might load a shotgun and shoot you in the spine as you’re walking away - crippling you immediately and ensuring that any finances you had left would now be spent maintaining your new life as a quadriplegic. Once you settle yourself into your seat, you will finish everything you just bought during the commercials. Originally this never presented itself as a problem for me. Any extra snacks or a bathroom break could ultimately be done during the intermission. That is, until I realise, there is no intermission.
Jamaican cinemas harken back to a past, when the movies should be treated with reverence. Not only is there an intermission halfway through like you would get at a live performance in the theatre but going to the movies back home is not done on a whim. It’s a carefully planned out social event, one that involves an exceeding amount of conversations and a dash of patriotic flair to finish it off. Palace Multiplex is the only cinema in Montego Bay - unlike the capital Kingston which has two! Go to the four screen cinema on any Tuesday or weekend evening and the crowds are immense, teeming with people who aren’t necessarily excited to see the film but who find themselves there anyway.
Most movies will play the Jamaican national anthem before any of the commercials start. Whenever I explain this to foreigners, they believe that my childhood is similar to a North Koreans, in which we sob in awe over videos of a Supreme Leader followed by a 2 minute hate where we scream at political traitors in preparation to settle into a Disney movie. Rather what happens is that you stand as the tune for the first verse of the anthem plays with video clips of various Jamaicans representing the country - from winning Olympic medals to drinking white rum and playing dominoes. There is no secret police in the audience who will rough you up by the popcorn if you don’t stand, it’s just a ritual. At the end, you sit and my greatest fear begins - the trailers.
It’s not so much the trailers themselves that terrify me but rather the unknown of what trailer you are going to get. This fear, may seem irrational but there is a source I can blame. Spongebob Squarepants.
My mother and a friend of hers had decided to show amazing fortitude and bring their five year old children to go see The Spongebob Squarepants Movie. There was a small hesitation but after deciding that the other option The Polar Express might be a little too scary for us, they took us to see Spongebob. Settled in our seats and the anthem having been played, a man tapped my mother on the shoulder and asked if she could look after his daughter while he went to the bathroom. My mother agreed and he slipped out just as the trailers began. The music of the first trailer unnerved me. It was suitably ominous but nothing was really happening until a white wall came into shot.
After a pregnant pause, the scarred face of a doll burst through screaming “It’s Chucky!”
The reference was lost on me. I didn’t understand that there was irony in the fact that this horror movie doll was referencing the older, revered horror classic The Shining. Instead of focusing on the clear layered performance of horror movie lore, I was focusing on not letting the contents of my bladder spill out in the middle of the cinema. The theatre was chaos. Children were screaming while teenagers laughed at the carnage that was unfolding right before their eyes. On screen, Chucky went around throwing televisions and chasing people with knives while mothers were running up to the projector, screaming for them to turn it off. I stopped still, my body turning in on itself. My mother not only dealing with my potential mental scarring was now going to have to explain to the father of her charge, that in the two minutes it took for him to use the bathroom, his daughter was now going to need intense psychotherapy and will forever have a fear of dolls.
The only fear I’ve seen at the English movies is at the concession stand. English audiences are far more reserved with their opinions; they sit and watch the film. Jamaican audiences prefer to give a running commentary.
“Box him nuh!” A woman in the back row shouted at Tarzan while he was facing his enemy. The audience looked at Tarzan, perhaps he would listen. He didn’t.
“Wah me seh? This man is a fool!” The rest of the cinema murmured in agreement. A Jamaican cinema is much like a film set where the actors don’t cooperate. We shout directions and make observations out loud, gathering the consensus of the rest of the room. The audience becomes the writer, the director, the sound designer and lighting coordinator. But the movie itself takes no heed.
The only true excitement I’ve had in an English cinema is the reappearance of a certain mouse. I sometimes visit a rather artsy cinema just off Piccadilly Circus - its sofas and coffee shop attempt to give an old fashioned, rustic ambience. The lightbulbs are all bare and you almost expect cigarette smoke to filter amongst the light from the projector as a French couple whisper in hushed tones. The mouse almost adds to the feeling and by the second time I saw him I was starting to believe that it was there on purpose - released to just add to the feel of the cinema. The last time I saw him was my last trip before the lockdown. I had never gone alone before and the only other people in the room was another couple (decidedly not French). The room was quite lonely and I’d never seen a screen so empty before. I was used to cinemas with chattering and unsolicited advice being passed on to the characters, not this mausoleum where movies were silently appreciated.
Halfway through, the mouse popped up, just below my feet. Instead of trying to get rid of him, I kicked a piece of popcorn towards him. He seemed to enjoy it and together we sat and watched as the movie flickered on above us.