The movie’s over. I know this because I hear the strains of some shitbox Celine song and I see credits rolling.
This is my cue to vamanos. I saw Scream 2. The theater’s still dark. I could die if I stay in my seat popping Milk Duds. Anyway, I have to hit the head. It was a 90-minute movie, after all.
There’s just one problem. Peen Shalit next to me is gazing at the screen as though it’s the beginning of Star Wars or a Magic Eye image.
Excuse me, sir, did you work on the film? Are you in the business? Did you happen to be in Utah during Sundance last year? Is Jeremy Piven your second cousin? Do you think there’s a clue to an episode of Lost embedded somewhere between the grip and best boy credits? Do you sleep with your eyes open? No? Then why are you still sitting there? You’re blocking my passage and the ushers need to clean up the remnants of your jumbo combo snack box before the next screening.
Sure, if outtakes or additional footage have been added to the credits, hang out. I'm right there with you. I don't want to miss Will Ferrell ad libbing hilarity, either. But that's not usually the case. If you have to watch the credits because you’re avoiding going home to an empty or angry house or because you’re an aficionado who says “film” instead of “movie” and takes your two-week vacation during your city’s film festival, at least have the decency to sit in the middle of a row so I don’t have to play impromptu aisle Twister. Consider doing what any self-respecting film buff does: study IMDB when you get home.
If I have to give you one more lap dance as I’m leaving The Squeakquel, I’m going to pack a boom mic in my bag along with my contraband snacks and go Darth Maul on you.