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Pay Up, Sit Still, and Damage Your Bladder: Theater Economics

By Jonathan David Morris

You know how sometimes, when you’re so hungry that you’re borderline delusional, all you see when you look at someone is a nice, juicy turkey? Well, all right, I’m probably confusing real life with Looney Tunes again. But the point is, I think that’s how movie theaters see moviegoers nowadays. They’re so money hungry, these theaters, that they don’t see a human when you walk through the door. They see a nice, juicy bird on a silver platter. Only instead of a turkey, you’re a goose of the golden-egg-laying variety.

I came to this conclusion last Monday, when I went to see “Meet the Fockers.” If you’ve been to a theater lately, you probably know where I’m going with this.

The first beating took place at the ticket counter. Of course, this is nothing new—outrageous ticket prices are an age old complaint. But things are so bad now that prices will go up a dollar by the time you finish this article. Worse still, matinees are no longer a safe haven—no longer a nice way of taking a flick in for under ten bucks. You know how much I paid for two tickets? Twelve fifty. And this was the early show discount. It’s insane. People were rummaging through their pockets, paying for tickets with spare change and string.

Then comes the snack counter, or as I like to call it: The Place Where You Throw Away More Money. This is where theaters really get you.

Now, I’ll be honest. I find every single thing about movie theater popcorn—the way it looks, the way it smells, even the way it contains nothing but sharp crumbs and kernels at the bottom—completely irresistible. For me, movie theater popcorn is basically crack-cocaine covered in canola oil (or whatever they’re dousing it in these days; it could be blood, for all I care). I’m addicted. I’ll pay any price they ask. And I’m all right with that. I just wish they weren’t so sneaky about it.

For instance, some theaters hand out “coupons” for popcorn-and-drink combos when you buy your tickets. This is so you’ll walk away thinking, “Well, I wasn’t going to buy any snacks today, but it’s a special—so why not?” Well, here’s why: Because these “coupons” aren’t coupons. Coupons offer discounts. These are just advertisements. The combos cost the same as both items purchased separately. There might as well be a disclaimer that reads: “If you fall for this, we’re selling a bridge behind the theater. Give us a call.”

Then there are size charts—the real heart and soul of snack counter deception. I hesitate to call them size charts anymore, because the word “size” traditionally refers to… well, size. And popcorn no longer comes in sizes. It comes in concepts. Same goes for drinks. “Small,” “Medium,” and “Large” have now been replaced by “Child,” “Medium,” and “Value.” No, seriously.

“Child” size is an obvious ploy to prevent self-respecting adults from ordering a small. That’s pretty devious. And if the trickery ended there, it would be bad enough. But “Value” is the one that gets me. “Value” reaches new heights. It beats Wendy’s identical “Biggie” and “Great Biggie” french fries. It even beats McDonald’s jumbo “Super Size” swindle. You know, the one that made “Large” the new medium, “Medium” the new small, and “Small” the new obsolete? “Medium” cannot be the smallest in a series of items. This defies the laws of Nature and of Nature’s Dictionary. It’s hard to stoop much lower than that. But “Value” totally fails to indicate the size of its container. You have no idea what you’re ordering, when you order a “Value.” And what it amounts to is five bucks for thirty cents’ worth of popcorn. So in the world of size chart deceptions, “Value” is king.

(One of these days, I’d like to inject a theater owner with truth serum. I suspect “Child,” “Medium,” and “Value” would become “Surprisingly Little For Your Money,” “Take Out A Loan’s Worth,” and “Indentured Servitude,” respectively.)

Finally, after getting your tickets and taking out a mortgage, you head into the theater itself. This is where the real fun begins… eventually. But first you must sit through a three-pronged ad attack.

Stage 1: The Slideshow. This usually includes ads for your local proctologist, as well as ads for the slideshow itself (in case any other local proctologists are in attendance). There’s also a neat game where they jumble a bunch of letters, and you get to unscramble them to form the name of an actor. You have to be quick, though. They show the answer two slides later. And someone else in the audience will usually shout it out before that. (Hey, it’s not my fault you couldn’t get “Ben Affleck.") This game will make you hate yourself. It’ll make you long for the ads for local proctologists. But it’s just the beginning.

Then comes Stage 2: The Commercials. We’re talking half a dozen or more TV-style commercials, only longer, souped up, and twice as painful. My favorite from the pre-"Fockers" experience was a mini-drama about a surfer dude feeling the rush of diving… or fatherhood… or something. Somehow, it became an ad for American Express.

Lastly, Stage 3: The Coming Attractions. Now, lots of folks enjoy these previews, and I happen to be one of them. But when it comes down to it, they’re just another set of commercials. Yes, these movies are “coming soon to a theater near you,” but think about all that comes with them: high ticket prices; overpriced popcorn; ads for surfers with AmEx cards. And that’s to say nothing of the ads within the movies themselves. If memory serves, I saw two different Apple computers in the first five minutes of “Meet the Fockers.” Do you know how many Apples I’ve seen in people’s homes in real life? The same number. Two. One was the Apple II C that I owned 15 years ago. The other is my wife’s new iMac.

By the time I had counted those computers in the movie, I was fresh out of popcorn, fresh out of soda, and badly in need of a urinal. I don’t think this was an accident. In fact, it pretty much sums up the modern movie theater experience. Pay up, sit still, and damage your bladder. What a great way to spend an afternoon.

Look, I understand that advertising drives a large part of the entertainment industry, and, really, I’m fine with that. I’m just a little confused as to why prices rise along with the number of ads. Wouldn’t you think with all this extra advertising, theaters could keep prices stable—or even move them down?

I don’t own a theater. I’ve certainly never managed one. And I won’t tell theater managers how to do their job. But if you cut this goose open, I’m telling you, you won’t find any golden eggs inside. Nor will you find any money in my wallet. You already took it all. And next time, I’m going to wait for the DVD.

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