28 Years Later: My First Foray into a Movie Theater in 2025

I've been broke for so long that it's become part of how I perceive the world, people and choices. I don’t count days or hours anymore. I count dollars per hour. Time is money and I'm broke in both.

So, not having money is a big deterrent when it comes to going to the movies. That, and the fact that my girlfriend despises the entire concept. Not the movies themselves, but the ritual: getting there, the strangers, their smells and sounds, the overpriced snacks. She hates the act of sharing them with other people. Which is, ironically, what movies theatres are made for.

A lot of people seem to believe that anyone can be converted into this movie-going religion. I have an anthropologic theory: I’m convinced that if you took a man from an uncontacted tribe and plopped him in a theatre, he’d be scared shitless for the first fifteen minutes, and obsessed by the end credits. But not her. Not my girlfriend. She’s immune to the spell.

All of this to say, I haven't been to the movies in all of 2025. But there's this apocalyptic scent in the air, so fuck it. We decided—or should I say, I decided—and then convinced her, to go see 28 Years Later.

Pre-Ritual

Everything about the movie-going experience plays out like a ritual. The format has changed, but practice remains. As soon as you take out your phone to look at the screening times, you're in. "What time-slot represents the least amount of energy on my part?"

I was early in getting the tickets, so I was able to pick the second best seat option, objectively speaking. Dead center of the theatre—well, almost, a bunch of other couples had the actual dead center seats. Still, we were just a couple seats off.

We had tickets for the 4:40 p.m. showing at the Metrotown Cineplex, about a 20-minute bus ride away. The plan: leave at 4:00. Simple.

At 4:00 sharp, I was ready. She wasn’t. She hated her outfit. I told her, each time a bit less calmly, that she looked great. And each time I meant it a little less and she believed it a little less.

Lately, our dogs have developed a deep fear of our absence, or we noticed it not that long ago, and maybe that's how they've always been. So, before leaving, we set up the camera to monitor them, dropped CBD oil in their mouths, turned on ambient music, and put the shock collar on the one that barks the loudest.

Side note: I'd never put that collar on my dog without testing it on me first. So I did, on level 1 of 10, and fuck that. It hurts. So we always set it to level 0, where it only makes noise. It works well enough to keep our neighbours off our backs, and dogs don't hate us.

By the time we locked the door, it was 4:20. We were late for a movie that cost us 40 dollars. And what do you do when you're late, broke, and anxious? You call an Uber.

As the film itself would later show, there are two drives, memento mori and memento amoris, Thanatos and Eros, destruction and reproduction. These two forces would push and pull our entire evening, and our perception of the movie.

We got in the car, we were back on track. Until my girlfriend said, “I forgot my glasses.” Now, a movie is very much an audiovisual experience, and call me a purist, but being able to see the screen is something I consider essential. I offered to go back. But she refused. “I’ll manage,” she said. She wouldn’t.

Hell

Metrotown is hell. Thousands upon thousands of moving corpses staring at their phones. Rivers of people moving at impossible angles. And every single one of them smells like ass. They all walk with purpose but go nowhere, both overstimulated and somehow still bored.

We climbed the stairs and entered the theatre lobby. It's weird, the way they want to make it like an arcade. Bright lights. Movie posters. Noisy and alive. It felt familiar.

I asked if she wanted an ICEE, and then realized I didn’t even know what they are called in Canada. Back in Mexico, the ICEE mascot was a cool polar bear. Is that the same over here? We didn’t buy snacks. We both silently recoiled at the prices. Does anyone enjoy popcorn that much?

We walked into theatre 6. Just in time. Or so I thought. 4:40 came and went. The tickets lied to me. 4:40 isn't even when the trailers start. It's just an arbitrary number. I should know this by now, and yet, I always feel cheated.

Trailer after trailer started playing. The new Superman movie, with the dog Krypton, looks like shit. Terrible CGI trailers, one after the other. The whole time, my girlfriend looked like she was squinting through an eye exam. Oh boy, she's not going to enjoy this. I started to get anxious. In a way, it's your responsibility to make sure the other person has a nice time when you pick the activity. Even if they, for some unknown reason, decide not to wear glasses to a movie, you still feel like you dropped the ball.

Then the anxiety: I didn't need to pee, but I wanted to go before the movie, but I was afraid I would miss the start of the movie, but more people were coming in and I would have to come back, in the dark, and be all like, "Sorry, sorry", while looking for my seat like an asshole. So, I decided to run for it.

Came back, the movie hadn't started. It would be another 20 minutes before it did. During that time, when the lights were still on, I could see my girlfriend getting more and more frustrated.

The Infected

Finally, the ligths dimmed. But people kept trickling in, shuffling to their seats, whispering and tripping in the dark. They're gonna miss the opening scene, I thought.

The movie started, a kind of throwback to the opening of 28 Weeks Later. A bunch of kids in a house, they hear some ruckus outside, but stare firmly at the Teletubbies on screen. Just like my surroundings. People coming in late, looking for their seats, being loud. I could hear the dude behind me shoveling popcorn into his mouth, barely waiting a second between scoops, drinking and chewing at the same time. Like the insanely cool trailer with the voice-over reading of the poem "Boots," his chew-drink-swallow rhythm became a death march

I’ve heard the Scottish accent is the hardest to understand in English. I believe it now. I was spending a lot of energy trying to decipher every line Aaron Taylor-Johnson mumbled or shouted. My girlfriend later confessed she understood maybe half of what was said. So, she was partially blind and deaf to the movie. Not ideal.

Then, real life conflict. Two women arguing in the row ahead. One told the other to quiet her kids. The other responded: “I’m their mother, I’ll tell them what to do.” The first clapped back, “Great parenting.” I love watching people fight in real life. I'll stop dead in my tracks to watch strangers fight in the street, no matter where I'm going. I was happy that I was going to get to see a fight, but angry that their argument was getting in the way of me understanding whatever the fuck Aaron Taylor-Johnson was saying. But no. Silence returned. A missed opportunity.

There it was again, the two drives pulling at each other.

Why This Movie?

Like everyone else, I remember loving 28 Days Later and vaguely remember Robert Carlyle sprinting in 28 Weeks Later. But that’s it. No deep connection, no lifelong fanhood. I just wanted spectacle to bring me back.

You can read many articles here on Peliplat about the film, and a lot of them will highlight one particular scene: 12 year-old Spike climbing a tower made out of bones while the sun rests in the background. The music, the emotional weight of the scene, the image and concept of death and love intertwined. That scene alone was worth it, in my opinion.

It's not a perfect movie, and if you decide to watch it, be ready for some major tonal shifts. But even with everything pulling me away from it, the spectacle kept me watching. For all the chaos, it was the kind of film that rewards a theatrical experience.

The Church of Cinema

As we walked out, I was approached by a goodlooking lady. She was dressed in bright pink leather jacket and pants. She had a big, friendly, almost fake-looking smile. “Hey guys! How are you?” I assumed she worked for the theatre.

Then, from behind a corner, came the man. Black suit and tie. Hair and beard nicely trimmed. He looked jacked. “We saw you from across the room,” he said. “You look like you came to this country looking for opportunity.”

I was flattered. It's not every day you get picked out as a couple with potential. In fact, that was the first time I was ever approached by swingers. At that moment, I wanted to turn back to my girlfriend and say, "See? I told you you looked nice."

They asked if we were busy, as he put his arm around her waist. I didn't even know what to say, when the man reached into his back pocket, pulled out a card. That's the most swinger-like thing I could think of.

It was a church.

For a brief moment, I thought we were being propositioned. Something in the way they approached us felt more like seduction than salvation. The cathedral-like aspect of the cinema. Maybe it’s the same instinct: to bring people in, to give them meaning, to touch something beyond. Religion and orgies are closer than they admit. Isn't that the life drive?

“You should come,” he said. “It’ll change your life.” Maybe that’s how the orgy starts? I still might check it out.

Closing Rites

Some say the cinema is like a church. It's a place where strangers gather in the dark to feel something together (sometimes, that happens after the movie itself, when a nice couple notices you). They say movies need to be experienced with others, that there’s some communal magic in laughing, crying, gasping with a hundred strangers.

I don’t buy it. Nine out of ten times, strangers ruin movies. They talk, slurp, scroll, cough, argue. But then, sometimes, despite that, the movie works. There’s something about the cathedral of cinema that pulls you in. The rhythm, the editing, the sound, the immersion. Yes, you can feel it at home. But it’s dulled, softened. On a big screen, it's just a deeper experience.

After months away from the movies, the experience is the same as always. For the most part, it feels like something you fight to enjoy. A balance between the two drives: the impulse to give up, and the stubborn urge to connect.