Going to the movies sucks now!

Going to the Movies Now Sucks (But It Was Pretty Awesome in the ’70s and ’80s)

By Someone Who Remembers When Popcorn Didn’t Require a Loan Approval

Let’s not sugarcoat it: going to the movies today sucks.Yes, I said it. It’s a sterile, overpriced, emotionally hollow experience—like getting a hug from an ATM. But back in the ’70s and ’80s? It was magic. It was gritty, chaotic, kind of gross, and absolutely beautiful.

Let’s go on a little journey, shall we?

Tickets: From Box Office to Bureaucracy

Back in the day, you earned your movie ticket. You stood in line for 40 minutes behind a guy in a denim vest who might’ve been in a band or just smelled like it. You’d get to the window, throw down a crumpled five-dollar bill, and walk away with a paper ticket the size of a Chiclet.

Now? You need a smartphone, six apps, a working relationship with your internet provider, and a Ph.D. in user interface design just to select a seat. And speaking of seats…

Seating: The Good, The Bad, and the Recliner Recline Wars

Remember when movie theater seats were those squeaky, half-padded folding chairs that made your butt go numb halfway through the film? Yeah, and we loved it. If someone tall sat in front of you, you just leaned slightly to the left and made peace with it.

Now it’s all reserved recliners, which sounds great until you’re locked into Seat G12 and find out the person in F12 is built like a linebacker and eats nachos like a cement mixer. Also, reclining is apparently a competitive sport now. If you don’t hit the button in time, your knees are a casualty of war.

Concessions: Snack or Second Mortgage?

In 1982, five bucks could buy you a ticket, a Coke, popcorn the size of a toddler, and probably a pack of Milk Duds that had fused into one Mega-Dud.

Today, a “snack combo” is $28.75 and comes with a souvenir cup the size of a fire extinguisher. That’s great until you realize you’ve consumed a gallon of root beer and have to wedge yourself past 14 people during the climax of the movie to pee.

The Crowd: Weirdos Welcome

Back in the day, going to the movies was a communal experience. Teenagers made out in the back row. Someone always shouted “RUN!” during horror films. There was a dude two rows down who laughed three seconds too late at every joke. It was a vibe.

Now? It’s dead silent. No one talks. No one laughs. Everyone just stares forward, politely inhaling their pre-movie hand sanitizer and silently judging whoever dares to unwrap a Twizzler during the trailers.

The Movies: From Schlock to “Content”

In the ’70s and ’80s, movies were either brilliant (The Godfather), completely insane (Flash Gordon), or both (Road House). You had sweaty action heroes (Arnold), gratuitous explosions (Stallone), and horror films with titles like Slime Beach Massacre II: This Time It’s Slippery.

Now? Everything is a gritty reboot of something that wasn’t gritty to begin with. (“This summer… Winnie the Pooh is back. And he’s mad.”) If it’s not a sequel, it’s a three-hour origin story about some obscure character from the Marvel universe (I'm so looking forward to the Scarlet Witch tetralogy).

And forget double features. Now they’re just double the price.

The Atmosphere: Sticky Floors and Spiritual Enlightenment

Ah yes, the sticky floors. They weren’t sticky because someone mopped. They were sticky because someone spilled a cherry Slurpee during Return of the Jedi and it’s still there. It was part of the ambiance. So was the mysterious stain on your seat and the fact that the lights never fully dimmed.

Today’s theaters are surgically clean, eerily quiet, and completely devoid of soul. You sit alone, wrapped in your $600 recliner, watching previews for movies you’ll never remember existed, wondering why you didn’t just stay home and rewatch Die Hard on Blu-ray like a normal person.

Final Thoughts: Why I Refuse To Go (But Kind of Hate It Like That)

Yes, the picture is clearer now. The sound is better. The air conditioning is stronger. But the soul is gone. Back in the ’70s and ’80s, going to the movies felt like you were part of a weird, spontaneous cultural ritual. Now? It feels like attending a PowerPoint presentation about superheroes.

So the next time someone tells you how great “the theater experience” is today, remind them:

Back then, we didn’t stream. We screamed, we laughed, we ducked flying popcorn, and we clapped when the credits rolled. And we didn’t need a QR code to feel like we were part of something real.

And best of all?

You could sneak into another movie afterward.

Try that with a reserved seat and 16 cameras watching your every move, buddy.

Modern Movies Are Derivative, Soulless, Politically-Sanitized Garbage

The cinema was once a vibrant, chaotic art form full of risk, personality, and—brace yourself—fun, has now evolved into something truly remarkable: an endless parade of reheated IP, CGI mulch, and lectures disguised as entertainment. Bravo, Hollywood. Truly, bravo.

Let’s raise a $19 soda to the modern movie industry, where creativity goes to die and then is rebooted three times before its corpse gets a Disney+ spin-off series.

Originality Is Dead. Long Live the Reboot.

Remember when a movie could be about something? When a guy could just be a cop with nothing to lose, and the entire plot was “he blows stuff up and punches a guy through a window”? That was enough. That was called cinema.

Now? Every movie is a franchise, a cinematic universe, a soft reboot of a hard reboot of a comic book no one read. Do you like Ghostbusters? Great, here’s the gender-swapped version. Don’t like that one? Here’s the “real” sequel. Oh wait, here’s a cartoon prequel about their dog, Slimer.

And hey, remember when Star Wars was about good vs. evil, space lasers, and awkward sibling kisses? Now it’s about “deconstructing trauma through the lens of interplanetary colonization” and selling you Baby Yoda nightlights.

Entertainment? Who Needs That? Let’s Have a Moral Instead.

In the past, filmmakers had one simple goal: make something cool. Blow up a building. Have a car chase. Throw in a one-liner so cheesy it could qualify as a dairy product. (“Yippee-ki-yay” wasn’t a social statement. It was awesome.)

Now? Movies must first and foremost be correct. Not artistically bold, not emotionally raw, not entertaining. No no—they must align with a carefully curated, sanitized worldview that won’t offend even the most hyper-sensitive Reddit user.

Your movie can be duller than beige wallpaper in a dentist’s office, but as long as it checks a diversity box and features a long speech about systemic injustice—you’ve got Oscar buzz, baby!

Characters Are Now Algorithms in Costumes

The heroes of yesteryear were people. Flawed, sweaty, occasionally drunk people. Think Snake Plissken. Dirty Harry. Ellen Ripley. Axel Foley. They had quirks. They had edge. They didn’t spend 45 minutes working through their feelings with a wise CGI man-fish.

Modern heroes? They’re a focus-grouped bowl of oatmeal with a cape. They crack exactly three jokes every 12 minutes, have no real vices (except “working too hard”), and deliver empowering speeches to side characters with all the spontaneity of a press release.

And villains? Oh, those used to be fun. Think Hans Gruber. Clubber Lang. The entire cast of RoboCop. Now, the villain is just a misunderstood orphan who’s really not a bad person, they’re just sad and fighting for “justice in a broken system.” Can’t we just go back to someone being evil for the fun of it?

Dialogue: Now 80% Quips, 20% TED Talk

Once upon a time, movie dialogue meant something. Characters would bark threats, make up words, and drop one-liners that ended bar fights. (“I have come here to chew bubblegum and kick ass… and I’m all out of bubblegum.”) Shakespeare? No. Iconic? Yes.

Now? Characters just deliver algorithm-approved snark every five seconds. “That just happened.” “Well that was awkward.” “I’m not crying, YOU’RE crying.” Rinse. Repeat. Throw in a dramatic monologue about climate change. Roll credits.

And Don’t Forget the CGI Sludge Factory

Practical effects? Real stunt work? Blood that wasn’t digitally added in post? HA! Get with the times. Today, every movie looks like it was filmed inside a green Jell-O mold during an earthquake. Entire characters are made of pixels. Entire cities are built in a server farm in Burbank.

Why build a set when you can just have The Rock stand in front of a green screen while a digital fire tornado explodes behind him, and a glowing orb threatens to destroy “the multiverse”?

Final Thought: Stop Calling This Cinema

Call it “content.” Call it “IP exploitation.” Call it “brand synergy.” But don’t call it cinema. Not when the greatest threat to mankind is whether the next Fast & Furious movie can top itself by launching a Dodge Charger into the sun.

If you want real movies? Dust off The Thing. Rewatch Lethal Weapon. Bask in the raw insanity of Commando, Big Trouble in Little China, Predator, Raising Arizona, or Robocop—films that were weird, bold, funny, violent, and didn’t need to apologize after every scene.

Hollywood used to say, “Let’s entertain the hell out of people.”

Now it says, “Let’s not offend anyone and maybe sell some Funko Pops.”

So no, I’m not nostalgic. I’m traumatized by how boring  and awful movies have become. And you should be too.

Spaghetti Westerns

Why Spaghetti Westerns Are the Greatest Thing Since Sliced Meatballs

By Mike Walk

Let’s talk about Spaghetti Westerns, which are what happen when Italians watch one John Wayne movie, drink a gallon of espresso, and say, “Hey! We can do that! But with more ponchos, sweat, and close-ups of people squinting!”

Now, before you go all Citizen Kane on me and start yammering about “cinematic merit” and “narrative complexity,” let me stop you right there, Professor Film School. This genre is not about nuance. It is about gritty men with no names, hats that have clearly been run over by a wagon train, and gunfights conducted at speeds that make molasses look like a NASCAR driver.

A Brief History of This Dust-Covered Madness

Spaghetti Westerns were born in the 1960s, when Italian filmmakers said, “What if we made cowboy movies, but with less budget, more Ennio Morricone, and at least three gallons of fake blood per scene?” The result was a glorious mashup of American myth, European existentialism, and a total disregard for historical accuracy. You want realism? This is a world where a man can be shot 47 times, fall off a roof, and still deliver a gravelly one-liner before dying very slowly while harmonica music plays.

The most famous of these was Sergio Leone, a man who thought the ideal film runtime was “however long it takes for two guys to stare at each other before drawing.” He gave us The Man With No Name, who was famously played by Clint Eastwood before he became mayor of every movie with a rifle in it.

The Man With No Name never said much, because talking was for people who weren’t busy chewing cigars, shooting bad guys, or scowling into the sun like it owed them money.

The Formula That Always Works

Here’s how every Spaghetti Western goes:

1. A mysterious drifter rides into a town with exactly three buildings and one saloon.

2. Said drifter is either a bounty hunter, a vengeful ex-sheriff, or a guy who just hates bathing.

3. He immediately becomes embroiled in a feud between two factions, both of which appear to be made up of sweaty, unshaven men with poor impulse control.

4. Gunfights ensue. Every other bullet ricochets crazily.

5. Everyone dies, usually while the camera zooms in and out like the cameraman is diving into the scene.

6. The drifter leaves, and the town burns down, explodes, or is revealed to be a dream.

This formula works every time, because it satisfies the three basic human needs: violence, catchy theme music, and a morally ambiguous hero with a cool hat.

The Music Deserves Its Own Hall of Fame

You cannot talk about Spaghetti Westerns without mentioning the music, specifically the kind composed by Ennio Morricone, who never met a twangy guitar or spooky flute he couldn’t turn into a death anthem. The music is so dramatic it can make eating spaghetti feel like an assassination attempt.

Seriously, you hear that wah-WAH-wah and immediately expect someone to get shot in slow motion while a tumbleweed explodes.

Why Spaghetti Westerns Are Better Than Whatever You’re Watching

Let’s be honest: modern movies involve far too much thinking. You have to interpret themes, follow subplots, and understand metaphors. With Spaghetti Westerns, the only metaphor is the dusty boot of justice kicking you in the face.

Also, let’s not forget that these films gave us essential life lessons, like:

• Always check your coffin for Gatling guns.

• Never trust a man named “Tuco.”

• If you hear a trumpet playing and no one’s around, you’re already dead.

In Conclusion: YEEHAW.

Spaghetti Westerns are a beautiful fever dream where the good guys are bad, the bad guys are worse, and everyone solves their problems with six-shooters and vaguely philosophical quips. They’re not historically accurate, socially relevant, or particularly coherent.

But they are AWESOME.

So the next time you’re stuck in a Netflix coma trying to choose between “Moody Detective Series #187” or “Reality Show Where People Yell About Houseplants,” do yourself a favor. Put on The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. Turn up the volume. Squint dramatically. And ride off into the sunset of pure, unfiltered cinematic joy.

Just watch out for the harmonica guy. He’s probably got a grudge.

Eegah (1962) sucks in the best way!

EEGAH (1962)

Tagline: “Watch out for snakes! And really awkward pool parties.”

Synopsis:

Somewhere in the California desert (which suspiciously looks like someone’s backyard with a lot of sand dumped on it), a giant caveman named Eegah has been quietly living his best Neanderthal life for thousands of years—probably surviving on lizards, cactus juice, and beard oil made from the tears of forgotten actors.

Then one day, a teen girl named Roxy nearly plows into this 7-foot Cro-Magnon while driving her convertible (as you do). But instead of calling the police, or running, or making any logical decision, she tells her crooner boyfriend Tom and her mustachioed father, who’s a mix between “Indiana Jones” and “low-budget real estate agent.”

Roxy’s dad, in an act of pure cinematic brilliance, decides to go looking for Eegah—with a camera and a hat. He vanishes almost immediately, because of course he does. So Roxy and Tom hop in a helicopter (yes, a helicopter, rented for $10 and half a sandwich) to find him.

What follows is a surreal fever dream involving:

• A giant caveman who can somehow say “EEGAH!” but nothing else.

• A romantic subplot that’s 85% Tom singing soft ballads while Roxy stares into space like she forgot her lines.

• A cave dinner party where Eegah tries to woo Roxy with grunts and goat leg (yes, it gets weird).

• And a climactic poolside battle at a country club where Eegah, armed with 1960s man-strength and a great big club, gets absolutely bodied by cops with pistols.

And somehow, in all this madness, Arch Hall Jr. manages to look like a wax figure of Elvis left in the sun too long.

Final Verdict:

Eegah is the kind of movie that makes you question not only cinema, but reality itself. It’s part caveman horror, part teen musical, and all 100% “What were they thinking?” It’s so bad it circles back around to genius.

Warning: May contain uncomfortably long scenes of facial hair grooming, and romantic tension between a girl and a caveman who may or may not be her great-great-great-grand-uncle. Also there are some cheesy looking corpses.

To the Coast!!!

 A Road Trip to Corpus Christi: A Glorious Journey into Heat, Sand, and Existential Despair

by Moe Stafford 

There comes a time in every American’s life when they feel a primal urge deep in their soul to hit the road and head to the coast. For Texans, that means Corpus Christi—a place that is both a city and a warning label. I recently made this pilgrimage with my family in a vehicle scientifically designed to hold one large suitcase and one medium-sized raccoon, yet somehow crammed with enough gear to colonize Mars.

Packing the Car: An Engineering Miracle

Our first challenge was fitting 47 duffel bags, 2 coolers, 3 kids, and an inflatable orca named “Justice” into the back of a midsize SUV. After several rounds of amateur Tetris and professional-level swearing, we managed to close the trunk using only a bungee cord and what I believe is now a legally binding prayer.

Our snacks included three flavors of beef jerky, five forms of melted chocolate, and a trail mix that everyone ignored because it had raisins in it. Also, 14 bottles of water that nobody would drink because they “weren’t cold enough,” even though we were driving to the surface of the sun.

The Road: A Scenic Tour of Nothing

The drive to Corpus Christi is roughly three hours of flat terrain, punctuated by billboards for personal injury lawyers and signs that say things like, “Last Buc-ee’s for 40 Miles—Abandon Hope All Ye Who Exit Here.”

If you’ve never driven this route, just imagine being inside a hair dryer that smells faintly like cow and has been playing “Margaritaville” on repeat since 1998.

At one point, we passed a town called “Refugio,” which I believe is Spanish for “Congratulations, You’re Lost.” We stopped for gas and were immediately surrounded by aggressive seagulls who had clearly completed at least one tour in Iraq.

Arrival: The Coastal Apocalypse

Ah, Corpus Christi—where the wind is so strong you can lean into it like Michael Jackson in the “Smooth Criminal” video and not fall over. The beach itself was a charming mix of actual sand and hot silica shrapnel that launched into your eye sockets every time a toddler walked past.

We found a spot near the water, laid out our towels, and were instantly engulfed by rogue beach umbrellas traveling at Mach 3. My youngest child attempted to build a sandcastle but instead created a vaguely pyramid-shaped tribute to chaos, which a wave destroyed before he could name it “Fort Dingleberry.”

Wildlife and Other Natural Hazards

Corpus is known for its coastal wildlife, including jellyfish, seagulls with anger issues, and mosquitoes that could bench press a Volkswagen. One particularly jacked pelican gave me a look that said, “Nice sandwich. Shame if someone stole it mid-bite.” I now owe that bird $4.75 and emotional damages.

Dining: Seafood and Regret

We had dinner at a local seafood place that proudly boasted “We fry everything but the receipt!” I ordered the fried shrimp platter, which arrived on a paper plate shaped like a pirate ship, accompanied by a side of hushpuppies that whispered ominous threats about my cholesterol.

The waiter’s name was either “Chaz” or “Bartholomew the Moist,” and he spent most of the evening trying to sell us on a key lime pie that had the consistency of industrial caulk. It was delicious, in the way that accidentally licking sunscreen is “delicious.”

The Return Trip: A Glorious Defeat

By the end of the trip, everyone was sunburned, dehydrated, and somehow still full of beef jerky. The ride home was eerily quiet, like the part in a war movie where the surviving soldiers reflect on the true cost of battle. Our car smelled like feet and melted sunscreen. I believe something may still be alive in the cooler.

Would we do it again? Absolutely not.

Until next summer.

Because that’s what Texans do: we suffer, we fry, and we road trip into oblivion with a cooler full of dreams and a GPS that still pronounces “Corpus” as “Corpse.”