Thought Balloons by Don MacPherson "Surround sound... damn it" I think it was scribe Warren Ellis, in his Come In Alone online column/trade-paperback collection -- wait, maybe it was Marty Feldman... no, definitely Ellis -- who wrote, "Comics aren't a group experience." Thank God for that. Comic books -- among other selected media -- are something one enjoys all alone. People don't gather in theatres or cinemas or arenas to enjoy the latest issue of the new Suicide Squad series or Andi Watson's entertaining characterizations in Slow News Day. We do, however, gather every day all over the world at the movies. The local movie house is a fascinating place. Its doorways seem to possess the most amazing ability: they can turn normal, perfectly nice people into the most inconsiderate jackasses to walk the face of the planet. Take, for example, my experience at a showing earlier this year of Pearl Harbor. Yes, yes, I know it was the most brainless and bloodless vision of war put to film, but it was Big and Pretty, not to mention on everyone's lips. There I sat, with my bag o' popcorn (butter in the middle, butter on the top), waiting for the show to start. The lights begin to dim, and after the ever-annoying opening advertisements, one of the best parts of any movie-going experience begins: the coming attractions. And that's when the middle-aged couple behind me starts to talk. No problem. Sure, I enjoy the trailers, but not everyone considers them a part of the movie itself. No big deal. The main feature begins, music begins to fill the cinema. The chatter continues. No problem. Once the dialogue starts, they, like most folks, will start paying attention to the story, the script and the characters. No such luck. A half hour, 45 minutes pass. I turn around, and ever so politely ask, "I'm sorry, but could you not talk during the movie, please? Thanks." They clam up. Whew. Back to the movie. They last all of five minutes. The theatre is packed; there's nowhere else to go. Not to worry, though. The Japanese fleet is approaching Hawaii. It won't be long before pyrotechnics and Dolby stereo envelop the entire audience. Landing fields and warships are bombed to kingdom come... and still I can hear them yapping. I can hear them over World War Two. Now, I'm only 30 years old, but I'm pretty sure the biggest military conflict of all time was, well, damn loud. As Ben Affleck and Josh Harnett push the limits of my ability to suspend disbelief, I turn again. "Please be quiet!" I say firmly. Forget about it. It's not going to happen. They talk and talk and talk, and I suffer through the superfluous final act. The credits finally begin to roll, and the lights come up. I, along with hundreds of others, rise from my seat. Unlike the others, though, I turn around and speak to those still seated behind me. "Shame on you for talking through the entire movie." Hardly the most effective scolding, I know, but I managed to retain my civility while expressing my annoyance with their failure to do so. All they managed were dumbfounded stares. I blame VCRs, digital cable and satellite movie channels. The notion of going to the movies is longer special, as people are free to watch them at home at any time. There's nothing magical about the movies anymore, or at least, they're not as magical as they used to be. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to resume reading Ed Brubaker's A Complete Lowlife. Shhh. Don MacPherson is popped fresh daily using peanut oil. Email Don MacPherson comments about this column, or discuss it on the Fourth Rail message board.