A few days ago, Justin asked “to hear some stories from Eric” on movie theater etiquette. Yes, people who talk and make other obtrusive noises during movies are a big pet peeve of mine. But I’m not always a stickler. Sometimes I go to movie theaters fully expecting the crowds to be kinda rowdy — why even bother going to see Big Momma’s House, for instance, if you’re not gonna see it in the ‘hood with a crowd that actually appreciates it? Vocally?

But most of the time, I’m looking for the audience to maintain a comfortable silence. I understand that people have to cough, and sometimes whisper a comment to a friend — those kinds of isolated interruptions really don’t bother me that much. It’s when people carry on conversations, or make a too-frequent string of isolated comments, or make consistent, repeated noises (unwrapping, rustling, tapping) that I get really pissed off.

Just earlier tonight, while I was watching Ran at the AFI Silver theater north of DC, someone sitting directly behind me made an annoying rustling noise every two or three seconds for about 10 minutes straight, until I turned around and gave him the evil eye. Lest you think it intolerant of me to shame a fellow audient into silence by staring at him with a disgusted look on my face, keep in mind that I let this slide for about 10 full minutes — rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . rustle, rustle, rustle . . . brief pause . . . Chinese water torture, anyone? I assume the guy bought a small popcorn in a paper bag that was a tight fit for his hand, so as the popcorn level reached the bag’s lower depths he had to shimmy his hand into the bag, grab a kernel or two, and shimmy back out. Why not tilt the bag a little and let some popcorn fall toward the bag’s opening, within easy reach? Or, better yet, tilt the bag even farther and pour a few kernels directly into his hand? No, that would be too quiet.

Then there’s the kid who seemed to have no sense of self-presence at all during the Buffalo Soldiers screening at the Landmark Bethesda theater earlier this week. There were several people already in the theater, and everyone had been fairly quiet for about five minutes before the previews started — then this kid and his family walk in, discussing in normal speaking tones where they were going to sit, then negotiating the distribution of refreshments between them all. This was a pretty clear warning sign — maybe it’s not so bad to exchange a few words before the movie itself starts, but this group of people had no sense of their environment. They didn’t realize that when they entered the theater doors they had moved from a noisy environment to a quiet environment — because they brought their own personal noise pollution with them. Then, throughout the movie the kid kept squeaking his shoes on the floor — loud, repeated (albeit intermittent) squeaking. And shaking his tub of popcorn — loud, repeated (albeit also intermittent) shaking. And I can’t forget the insanely loud laughter that was out of character with the film and with the rest of the audience. I actually shushed the kid about 45 minutes into the film (after trying unsuccessfully several times to catch his eye, so I could silently transmit my anger), but it didn’t make a difference. You have to have at least a tiny bit of self-awareness before you can change habitual behavior, even if just for a couple of hours.

Maybe I’m just hypersensitive. A few months ago, when Justin and I were watching Anger Management in Annapolis, there was a guy across the aisle to our right who kept tapping on his cup lid. Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap. Middling pause. Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap. Another pause. Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap. Etc., ad infinitum, ad nauseum. I kept looking over at the guy, hoping I could catch his eye. No such luck. I began to wonder whether I should actually make my way out of our row so I could actually ask the guy to stop. Maybe I should just yell at him from my seat — but that would be really unfair to the rest of the audience, and the guy would probably have been too clueless to realize I was yelling at him anyway . . . I missed a bunch of dialogue while I obsessed over the problem. After the movie, when we were leaving, I asked Justin, “Didn’t you hear that guy tapping on his cup over there?” And he said, “Yeah, but it didn’t bother me.” I said, “For me, it’s like this —” as I proceeded to poke Justin repeatedly in the head. You might as well just poke me in the head for a couple of hours if you’re going to tap on something throughout the movie.

This reminds me of the clock we had in my living room when I grew up in Portland. My grandpa made it for us, and it was a beautiful clock, but the second hand made a loud clicking noise every time it moved. Which was every second. Most of the time it faded into the background and I could go hours without noticing it at all. But when I was, say, watching a movie late at night and I suddenly noticed the sound of the clock, I couldn’t pay attention to the movie anymore until I either turned off the clock or moved it to another room, in the back of the house.

But I’m not always the one to get annoyed. Last year I was watching L.I.E. at Visions with my friend James, and I noticed a guy sitting behind us who kept laughing much louder and more frequently than the rest of the audience. But it didn’t really bother me — in fact, I only barely noticed. But James told me later he was ready to strangle the guy, who had evidently also been vigorously shaking the ice in his cup every time he let loose even a minor chuckle. That’s the kind of thing that would normally bother me, but I just didn’t notice.

I’m definitely not shy about confronting noisemakers. But I always wait awhile before I act. I give people the benefit of the doubt, assuming they’ll quiet down on their own, until they prove me wrong through consistent behavior. Even then, the confrontation is pretty mild, usually amounting to nothing more than a nasty look or a quick shhh, or louder shhh, or a “please shut up,” depending on the context and whether I think it will have an actual quieting effect (sometimes it backfires — rude people don’t like to be called on their rudeness). But one time, when Justin and I were watching The Pianist in Annapolis, there was an old couple sitting behind us that kept talking to each other in barely-hushed speaking voices throughout the entire movie. Nothing could happen onscreen without this couple having a little discussion about it. I gave them several nasty looks. It continued. I shushed them a few times. It continued. I asked them to “please be quiet,” but still it continued. So at the end of the movie, after the credits had finished rolling and we were all still there, I turned to the couple and said, “If you can’t stop talking while you’re watching movies, you should really stay at home and watch them on TV instead.” They seemed slightly stunned, and Justin and I left.

Then there was the time I almost got arrested for asking someone to shut up. Maybe the fact that he was a police officer, and he had been talking directly to me, contributed to the situation. It was at Union Station in November 2001, during the closing credits of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, which I was watching for the first time. I liked the movie and I was interested in checking out a few of the production credits. After awhile, every member of the audience who wasn’t me had cleared out, and the credits were still rolling. Some guy walked up to me and asked me to leave. I told him I wasn’t done watching the movie. He told me that the movie was over. I told him that it wasn’t over, it was rolling even as we spoke. He repeated his assertion that the movie was over. I told him that the credits are part of the movie. He told me that the credits were not part of the movie, and that I had to leave, NOW. I told him that I paid to watch the entire movie, and that I would not leave the theater until the credits were over. This was really starting to piss me off — I really was interested in catching a few of the credits, and the longer we engaged in this pointless debate about whether credits are, in fact, a part of the movie I had paid to see, the more the credits were sliding by before I could read them. So when he kept asking me why I wouldn’t leave, I told him to “Please be quiet and leave me alone.” He asked me why I wouldn’t talk to him. And I responded, “Because it’s f-ing impolite to talk during a movie.”

I didn’t really say “f-ing” — I used the real, actual f-word, fabled in story and song. At least, a conjugation of it. This is a word I use so infrequently that I’m not even spelling it out here. So when I use it, I mean it; I’ve made a deliberate decision to be profane. You can see, I was pretty damn pissed. Of course, the cop didn’t like this — he muttered something about there being no call for that kind of language, but mostly left me alone until the credits ended. Then he asked again if I would leave. I, of course, obliged, and he insisted on escorting me to the exit. He told me I could never return to that theater, that they would post my description so the staff would know to eject me if I came back. But when I was about to leave the theater, the cop said I had to come with him. I asked why. He wanted to talk to me. What if I didn’t go with him? He’d place me under arrest for disorderly conduct.

I seriously (though momentarily) debated whether to go with him or let him arrest me. It would almost have been worth it to prove a point, but I didn’t really have time to prove a point, or much extra cash to post bail if that would have been required. So I buckled under to the man, and he took me to a desk near the front of the theater. We went through a more subdued version of our conversation in the theater — why didn’t I leave? Why was I interested in watching the credits? Did I always watch movie credits? Why do you watch those credits? And how often? He seemed to be sincerely puzzled that someone would watch movie credits. I wanted to ask him whether he found his job as a glorified usher satisfying, but didn’t. After the end of this discussion, I asked him if I was now allowed to come back to the theater. He said yes. Every time I’ve seen him since then, I’ve smiled and waved. He gives me a perfunctory nod and turns away . . .

This reminds me of the time I flipped off a cop while I was driving 90 mph in a 65 zone — but that’s another story.