As I was out walking just the other day, I realized that in the past 18 months I’ve seen only a single first-run film (Clint Eastwood’s Changeling). Later that same day, I met with a group of friends and found out that most (if not all) of them have stopped going to first-run movies altogether. I’m sure the many (or the few) reading this would likely say the same.

Let me add that I do support repertory theatres on a regular basis (mostly for economic as opposed to esthetic concerns), and if good fortune smiles, I will attend a major international film festival each year, which allows me to see 40 films, usually within a 10-day period. In my own small, insignificant way, I still do go out to the movies, but why has the once-enjoyable experience of attending a first-run cinema now become such a dreaded chore?

Out of the 55 studio releases that have come out so far this year, I regretted missing only one (Coraline). The remaining 54 are entries in half-baked franchises (X-Men, Fast and Furious, Angels & Demons), idiotic how-to manuals for robotic socialization (Bride Wars, Confessions of a Shopaholic, He’s Just Not That Into You), adolescent fanboy musings (Watchmen, Adventureland) or corporate arguments for the social value of torture and destruction (Terminator, Last House on the Left). So much for choice. Or society.

Perhaps another reason why I don’t go to first-run movies anymore is that the experience of actively participating in a screening has been replaced by one more akin to sensory force-feeding. From the moment you buy your ticket, you’re bombarded by trailers for films that will appear in the bottom of the DVD pile six months later. From the moment you enter the theatre, you’re assaulted by commercials and music from manufactured artists who represent everything false and nothing “creative.” From the moment the lights dim, you’re repelled by a sound system designed by Boeing and an editing strategy better suited to monkeys on a steady diet of sugar. That sure is my idea of entertainment.

Upon exiting the theatre, you’re left with that empty feeling of being ripped off yet again — I’m constantly surprised that I don’t bump into Hollywood executives laughing and pointing fingers at me, a flashing neon sucker sign emblazoned on my soul.

I recently reacquainted myself with Raoul Walsh’s The Strawberry Blonde on Turner Classic Movies. A simple story of a man and a woman meeting, falling in love, and growing older in New York City. A film that contains exuberance, intelligence, passion, empathy, humour, and generosity towards its characters and life. After the viewing, I realized that a film like The Strawberry Blonde would be next to impossible to make in Hollywood today. I smiled, now knowing why I don’t go to first-run movies anymore.