Everyone knows how obnoxious the mall's moviegoers can be, but what about those audiences that are supposed to be more refined? Writing in Slate, Bryan Curtis runs through the "peculiar horrors" of the art house, from the chatter of film buffs to the aroma produced by "contraband sashimi and Whole Foods takeout." Some of these terrors are probably unique to New York City, but others occur more broadly—even this one:
The Crinkler is a mythic art-house figure—perhaps you've heard of him. Or, rather, perhaps you've heard him. As the lights go down, he is the guy three rows back who crinkles plastic wrap, restlessly and maniacally, for the entire length of a picture….It is possible, I suppose, that there is more than one Crinkler carrying plastic wrap all over the city, but the taste in movies (he seems to prefer muscular American cinema of the late 1940s) leads me to believe there is a single Crinkler, an omnipresent evil genius.
If there is just one Crinkler, he gets around. He used to sit behind me all the time when I lived in Los Angeles. I finally escaped him by moving to Baltimore, where annoying art-housers restrict themselves to hmming knowingly every time a character says something they deem significant. Think of it as the oral equivalent of yellow highlighter.
[Via Lew Rockwell.]