THE ARCLIGHT

Yesterday came the announcement that all ArcLight and Pacific Theaters would close for good due to the effects of the pandemic. While I've been to several other theaters in that chain, the ArcLight in Hollywood and its Cinerama Dome was a special place for me, as I know it was for so many others.

The first movie I saw at the ArcLight was SPARTACUS with AJ, as part of AFI's “100 Years, 100 Movies” celebration. Kirk Douglas introduced the movie, then led a talkback where he discussed hiring Dalton Trumbo and Stanley Kubrick and the various challenges of the production.

I was editing my first film, camped out in a cramped apartment in the Valley, and this was my first taste of Hollywood as a physical place and an industry with a history and a workforce, laborers who used their skills to turn ideas and dreams into filmed images. It made what was previously to me more of an idea into a concrete reality.

When I finally moved to Los Angeles in 2012, the first movie I saw in theaters was LAWLESS, a largely forgettable Tom Hardy/Shia LaBeouf period piece. The last movie I saw in theaters before the pandemic hit was THE INVISIBLE MAN, a great reboot that served as a final date night with my wife before we had our second kid. Both screenings were at the ArcLight.

In between, these: DE PALMA and PRISONERS with Spencer. BOYHOOD and JACKIE with Kyle. THE MARTIAN with Austin. THE PHANTOM THREAD with Taylor. DUNKIRK with Tom and Mia. PARASITE with Josh to celebrate after cutting a short film. I AM NOT YOUR NEGRO with Greg while running into Samantha on an early date with the man who would become her husband. Seeing Brant on the red carpet before a screening of FENCES. PORTRAIT OF A LADY ON FIRE with a terrible Q&A. Opening night of THE MASTER in 70mm. Sneaking away from my shitty reality show job to see THE RAID 2. Getting stoned in my car before seeing 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY. LADY BIRD, THE FLORIDA PROJECT, THE FAVOURITE, COLD WAR, A QUIET PLACE, THE DEATH OF STALIN, ZERO DARK THIRTY, BLUE IS THE WARMEST COLOR, UNDER THE SKIN, EDGE OF TOMORROW, SPRING BREAKERS, GET OUT, BROOKLYN, MOONLIGHT.

Some days I'd sneak away for matinees. Most often I'd often go on Sunday nights. I might arrive early because traffic wasn't as bad as I'd anticipated, so I'd browse the bookstore by the coffee kiosk, with curated recommendations from your favorite writers, directors, or actors. I'd marvel at the props or costumes in those big glass cases near the bathrooms.

I'd get a beer at the bar, a “movie pour” in a plastic cup. Sometimes there was a celebrity there: Tarantino, Elijah Wood, Kumail, Megan Ellison. It served as basically the only place where industry people would see a movie besides private screenings.

There was a giant white analog clock on top of the digital list of showtimes, with helpful reminders about how many minutes remained until your screening started. I'd approach the cashier to buy my ticket, and they all had their favorite movie listed on their name tag, which was often a conversation starter or a quick way to pay a compliment.

The seating was assigned; I always tried to sit in row J so I could put my feet up on the little metal bar. I got my stub, white with black letters and gold borders, the logo printed on it. I'd bound up those steep steps, find my seat again after double or triple checking the ticket, then waited for an usher to introduce the movie and “make sure the picture and sound quality were up to ArcLight standards”, after which often the audience would often applaud.

There were no commercials before the show. There were a maximum of three trailers. I didn't mind paying a premium because it was worth it: the seats were comfortable with plenty of leg room, stadium-style so there was no bad view, with good sound and projection. They actually took the no talking and no phone policy seriously.

If my movie was playing at the Dome, it felt like an event. I’d walk out the side door and go to the separate entrance. The lobby there was flooded with light from the tall windows that led to Sunset Boulevard. I'd enter the theater itself, the contrast from the lobby stark because of the dark recessed lighting, the hexagon ceiling pattern high above, and the giant screen, curved and wrapped around the wall.

The Cinerama Dome is a wonder of architecture, instantly recognizable and unforgettable, form meeting function and becoming beauty. It dates back to 1963. Like 3-D and Smell-o-Vision, it was an industry reaction to the fear of television overtaking the theatrical experience, in this case by making ultra-wide screens as one way to offer audiences an experience they couldn't get at home.

Many friends have told me they believe this closing is merely a negotiation tactic, and the ArcLight and especially the Dome will be back soon.

Maybe so. But this strikes me as a form of denial, the first stage of grief.

And that's what so many people are feeling in regards to this theater right now: grief, mourning, loss.

If that seems like an overwrought set of emotions related to the closing of a movie theater, especially in light of the more serious concerns in LA and all over the country (such as right-wing extremism, the continued killing of citizens by police, and the homelessness crisis), I won't argue with you. But consider this:

The ArcLight and the Cinerama Dome were a centralized location in a decentralized city. There was a bar and restaurant, a large lobby, and a plaza outside where so many pre- and post-show conversations occurred. The theater acted as a meeting place, as well as a setting that naturally fostered chance encounters with friends, co-workers and acquaintances.

This was a shared space that helped create memories for many people and those they loved. Because these theaters treated movies, the great modern art form, with the reverence they deserved, and did it in the heart of Hollywood, where movies still matter.

And now it's gone.