Theater of Memory: (500) Days of Summer

Three years ago today, my second favorite movie of all time, (500) Days of Summer, opened in limited release.  The Sundance phenom garnered killer reviews, and as it expanded, it grew into a bonafide indie hit, accurately deemed by critics far and wide as this generation's Annie Hall.  For me, seeing (500) Days of Summer was an incredibly significant event.  I had already decided to attend school for Film Studies with a screenwriting focus, but seeing Marc Webb's masterful quasi-radical romantic comedy served as an extra boost of inspiration.  This was the kind of movie that I could write someday.  This was the kind of honesty that was sadly lacking in the romance genre.  This sort of self-referential, hyper-aware narrative, fraught with gimmicks that work so well, was the sort of thing Hollywood needed more of, and the sort of story I wanted to tell.

When you see a movie that changes your life, you don't forget it.  And when an afternoon showing feels like it's happening at midnight, and the strangers around you feel like comrades in passionate, long-lasting fanaticism, it's a unique theater-going experience.

I saw (500) Days of Summer the first chance I could.  It opened the week after its initial release at my favorite movie theater, the Cedar Lee in Cleveland Heights, Ohio.  From my little speck of a town, it was an hour and a half drive, a drive that I made a few times each summer when I still lived at home with my parents.  The week leading up to a day at the Cedar Lee was always electrified with anticipation as I studied the showtimes, trying to figure out how best to maximize my time in that blessed landmark.  I couldn't justify making the drive to see just one movie, so I always saw at least two, and on days blessed by the screening schedule gods, three.  Those are some of the most cinematically memorable days of my life.

What makes the Cedar Lee so special is the character of each individual theater.  Rather than having a set of standardized theaters that differ only in size, there are wildly different set-ups depending on which house your movie of choice is playing in.  The two right off the lobby have seats that descend high above, making the screen seem strangely distant, while some of the smaller houses are long and low with smaller screens that make for a more intimate affair.  Rather than having a standard seat that I target in every theater, each one provides a new dilemma: which seat is the perfect one?

The day I saw (500) Days of Summer, I was on a pretty significant double feature.  I started with The Hurt Locker, which by that time, was already set in most critics' minds as the best movie of the year (though its Oscar prospects were still up in the air).  I remember one critic who wrote that you were a "coward" if you didn't see it, and I am not a coward.  So I checked out The Hurt Locker, was duly impressed but not as diehard about it as much of the movie-loving world, then headed into (500) Days of Summer.  I had decided on the order because I wanted to be happy on the way home, a sort of ironic pre-reasoning somewhat nullified by the sometimes-heavy themes of the film, but realized by the buoying effect of such a joyously upbeat, hip romcom.

(500) Days of Summer was housed in the theater at the end of the hallway that extends from the ticket booth, a theater that is unique within the establishment.  It's perhaps the most "normal" theater at the Cedar Lee, and despite it being pretty packed (anticipation was high), I found a good seat in one of the top rows, which were arguably the best rows in the place.

More people streamed in as the showtime approached, and a woman in running gear ended up sitting next to me, much to my annoyance.  I like the isolated connection of going to a movie alone, the non-invasive communal experience that was shattered if I had to sit next to someone I don't know.  In those cases, I wonder if I can stretch out and get comfortable, or if my minute movements will hamper their enjoyment of the movie.  It creates a tension that has no place in a movie theater, unless you're at a sold-out midnight show.

But that's exactly what this felt like.  The theater filled up nearly to capacity, and as the film started with its famous disclaimer ("Bitch."), the theater erupted with laughter, and any source of possible tension evaporated.  Everyone was on the same wavelength, ecstatically laughing as Tom danced post-sex, gasping when Summer's ring is revealed at her rooftop party, and applauding at the film's final, neat, theme-affirming line.  Though I never learned any of my neighbors' names, for that blissful hour and a half, they were my friends, the people who were there when I saw a movie that meant something to me, a movie that mattered personally, a movie that inspired me to fly to Los Angeles years later so I could sit on the bench and eat at the "karaoke bar."

It's fun to see such a great movie at a distant theater, because then you have a lengthy drive home to really chew it over, digest it, celebrate it in your mind and store certain scenes and lines in your heart.  To this day, (500) Days of Summer is one of my go-to movies, the movie I've seen more than any other, a movie I have more or less memorized, and the only movie I've ever watched three times in one day.  It's a movie that means more to me than I can express, so it's not surprising that it figures so prominently into my personal theater of memory.  Of all my theater-going experiences, it's probably the one I've shared most often, trying to conjure those feelings of seeing such a wonderful movie for the first time, a movie that everyone in attendance knew was wonderful.  It's those kinds of moments that allow movie magic to work at the height of its potential power.