C and I are walking through the foyer. It's mostly empty, ten thirty at night, the parents taking their kids out straight away--no time for credits, bless 'em.
"We needed a kid to justify going to these movies," C says. "This is becoming a need, y'know?"
"I don't want some screaming bag of meat around."
"I'm going to ignore that 'cause I know what you do for a living."
In front of us, a huge display board for Grindhouse emerges. A woman with a gun in her leg. Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino. I hear they're splitting up the two films now, but maybe that's just in the States, where it has only made eleven million in the first week, and not twenty. Poor studio babies.
C says, "See, it's saying shit like this that has people call you a cancer."
"It's not shit like that. It's different shit."
"You picking on people who can barely write, yeah? Same fucking dif."
I roll my eyes.
"I hope you put this on your blog, man," C says. "That fucking thing is brilliant."
"You don't even have the fucking internet. What do you care?"
"I'm a people person. People matter to me."
I laugh. "Loser."
We are walking down the foyer stairs. There are stains of popcorn, coke--though it could be any drink, really--and empty bags down it.
"Anyhow," C says, "I actually kinda dug that film."
"Was better than 300," I reply.
"Faint praise from you, dude."
"No, I liked it--it was funny." We pass an usher with a broom, sweeping the foyer. "It just had my fucking pet hate in it, that's all. That prelude shit, y'know? I mean, they put these preludes on films that tell you what the whole plot of the film is, and then they repeat it as they set up for the climax. It's so fucking ridiculous. You have the heroes kinda go through the motions of finding out what the bad guys want, and where they're from, and what the fuck they're doing--but the mystery is fucked, because the prelude told you all that shit right at the start so the audience is just sitting through this tedious exposition like you're a fucking pre-school monkey--"
"Like a horror writer!"
"That shit is uncalled for, man."
The glass doors slide open and we step out into the dark.
C says, "I'll give you ten bucks if you post this on your blog."
"Can I say this shit was uncalled for?"
"You'd be lying, man, cause you just laughed."
"I'm trying to make a serious point about the film," I say.
"Dude," C says, drawing the word out. "Dude. We just fucking watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles surrounded by parents and kids. It's a kids film. I got a few laughs. You got a few laughs. It looked cool enough. Do I gotta repeat that it's a kids film? No ones gives a fuck what rant you have going on."
"How about that it was a sequel for a film made seventeen years ago?"
"No one gives shit."
"You believe that?"
"I could if pushed."
We walk across the car park. Second time in a week. The shopping trolley is gone, but otherwise it's the same.
Finally, as the car draws closer, I say, "Ten bucks, hey?"