I was too, but all night my mind would get in my way. “ didn’t care what we were showing,” Kurkowski said. As it turns out, the Paramount sold out both screens that first night. Throughout the night, I hear giggling-and at one point, I catch myself laughing along as well, to an inexplicably deep-voiced baby troll played by Kenan Thompson. A group of masked boys on scooters and bikes ride around the lot, before an employee urges their adult chaperone to take them back to their car. The children in the audience certainly have no trouble enjoying the show: As the sky dims, fireworks- a staple of Los Angeles in the weeks leading up to July 4-explode in the distance, and the kids cheer them on. Its eager sincerity, buoyant tone, and entertaining escapism wind up being an excellent distraction. Of the four films offered, I chose Trolls World Tour, the family-friendly, already released jukebox musical about tribes of the titular hairy dolls fighting to save music. The film itself alleviates some of this anxiety. Moviegoers at Badin Road Drive-In Theater, in Badin, North Carolina, over Memorial Day weekend (Al Drago / Bloomberg / Getty) A whiff of surreality even permeates the previews: Every trailer that plays still touts the film’s original release date. I’m not the only one acting oddly: In the restroom, where employees had used caution tape to mark off every other stall, a woman ducks inside hers when she spots me exiting mine at the same time, and heads for the row of sinks only after I walk past. We’re far enough apart, but I don’t want to make a mistake. Before heading to the restroom, I wait for the man standing by the car next to mine to finish tugging a mask over his son’s face. I consider grabbing popcorn, but when I see that the line has stretched into the lot for the adjacent screen, I scurry back to my car-it feels like too many people, even if everyone’s socially distanced. But as much I try to relax, alarm bells erupt in my head during every possible interaction. Early last week, California saw its largest spike in coronavirus cases since the outbreak began, so I overprepare to go to the theater, bringing with me gloves, hand sanitizer, and snacks. “We prepared for the worst,” Kurkowski said, “and hoped for the best.” So when the green light finally arrived, the theater mobilized its staff, reopening its two screens just three days after the order’s announcement. Darren Kurkowski, the vice president of operations at Bianchi Theatres, which owns the drive-in, told me it had been “incredibly tough” to watch competitors reap the rewards of pandemic-induced patronage while the Paramount sat idly. When Los Angeles County finally allowed its drive-in theaters to reopen-weeks after neighboring counties and other states did-the Paramount sprung into action. I expected to find a haven, a sanctuary of old-fashioned normalcy instead, my getaway only exacerbated my modern anxieties. Members of different households have little to no chance of coming into contact-no one is clambering over other viewers’ legs to reach seats, or rubbing elbows with strangers for hours in an enclosed space. Compared with other recreational facilities that are reopening across the country, they’re low-risk in terms of social distancing: The guests stay outdoors, near or inside their cars. Hong / AP)ĭrive-in theaters, emblems of a bygone era of Americana, have enjoyed a renaissance amid the shutdowns. Patrons at Mission Tiki Drive-In Theatre in Montclair, California (Jae C. “I sanitized it.” Then she smiles-or, rather, her eyes crinkle above her mask. I hesitate when an employee offers me a pen to sign the receipt. These instructions have also been printed on flyers an attendant hands me one to keep in my car as a reminder.īy the time I purchase my ticket, I’m on high alert. No banners are commemorating the event, no fanfare is celebrating the business’s return instead, signs have been posted by the box-office booths warning guests to park nine feet apart, walk six feet apart, and stay inside their vehicles during the screening. But it feels like I’m about to take a standardized test, not catch a movie with an audience for the first time in three months. It’s the last Friday in May when I attend the grand reopening of the drive-in after the pandemic forced its closure in March. A masked employee walks toward me, stands a few feet away from my window, and informs me that my ticket will be placed on my windshield to minimize contact, and that I should review the new social-distancing guidelines posted by the box office, which she and her fellow attendants will be enforcing. I arrive at the Paramount Drive-In Theater two and a half hours before its first screening, but it appears I’m already late: Ahead of me, a line of cars has formed, ranging from sedans like mine to pickup trucks loaded with blankets and pillows in the back, all inching toward the entrance.
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