Music Box
9.26.25
The last vestiges of summer heat follow my friends and I into the theatre, as we’re greeted by the familiar embrace of popcorn butter and air conditioning. We arrived thirty minutes early to claim a workable vantage point; the seven hundred-seat venue is general admission, and we’re attending a sold-out showing. Typically, a line snakes its way outdoors, spilling out onto the sidewalk and stretching around the block. But they’ve let patrons in early tonight, and we quickly locate the fourth member of our group, whose draped sweatshirt mercifully claims half a row to call our own.
As I settle into my rickety seat, I think about the prevailing sentiment I’ve recently seen shared across tweets and Substacks alike. It goes something like this: Phone addiction got so bad that watching a movie now feels productive.
In some respects, the feeling this statement broaches is valid. Entertainment is just that—entertainment—no matter if the screen is horizontal or vertical. And with the rise of streaming services, most forms of video content are consumed on screens these days, anyway.
Yet the audiovisual medium of film is not reserved for just “content.” Over the last century, movies have served a purpose past just the dopamine rush of a good joke or stimulating explosion. At their best, films are a powerful artistic force—from the ugly mirror Stanley Kubrick held up to Cold War-era America in Dr. Strangelove, to the universally-applicable ballad of socioeconomic inequality found in Parasite.
And, arguably most importantly, film is one of the last vessels to satisfy the third rung on Maslov’s Hierarchy of Needs: sense of belonging. That’s why no matter how kitschy Chicago’s iconic Music Box Theatre is sometimes—between the house organist playing the keys before each showing, or the over-the-top audience laughter that can feel oh-so-forced—something about this space keeps bringing me back. This room, which first opened its doors in 1929, is sacred, in a way.
It’s opening night for Paul Thomas Anderson’s new film, One Battle After Another, and the instant classic-level hype proves its merit. Over a two-and-a-half hour runtime, violent twists are met with audible gasps from the crowd; Leonardo DiCaprio’s washed-up stoner, Bob Ferguson, garners both laughs and tears alike. The 70mm format captures the film’s desert beauty perfectly, and Johnny Greenwood (himself a veteran of the band Radiohead) delivers a tense score, offering a sense of hope alongside the madness.
By the next day, though, I won’t remember the crowd’s enthusiastic ovation so much as what happens next. Because for the next hour-plus, my friends and I proceeded to debrief the film over pizza, reveling in its depiction of America and debating its standing among the best movies of the decade.
Theaters may not be a venue to truly touch grass. But they are a communal living room where conversations are sparked and ideas are shared. For me, they’re a reminder for why I create in the first place.
9.26.25
The last vestiges of summer heat follow my friends and I into the theatre, as we’re greeted by the familiar embrace of popcorn butter and air conditioning. We arrived thirty minutes early to claim a workable vantage point; the seven hundred-seat venue is general admission, and we’re attending a sold-out showing. Typically, a line snakes its way outdoors, spilling out onto the sidewalk and stretching around the block. But they’ve let patrons in early tonight, and we quickly locate the fourth member of our group, whose draped sweatshirt mercifully claims half a row to call our own.
As I settle into my rickety seat, I think about the prevailing sentiment I’ve recently seen shared across tweets and Substacks alike. It goes something like this: Phone addiction got so bad that watching a movie now feels productive.
In some respects, the feeling this statement broaches is valid. Entertainment is just that—entertainment—no matter if the screen is horizontal or vertical. And with the rise of streaming services, most forms of video content are consumed on screens these days, anyway.
Yet the audiovisual medium of film is not reserved for just “content.” Over the last century, movies have served a purpose past just the dopamine rush of a good joke or stimulating explosion. At their best, films are a powerful artistic force—from the ugly mirror Stanley Kubrick held up to Cold War-era America in Dr. Strangelove, to the universally-applicable ballad of socioeconomic inequality found in Parasite.
And, arguably most importantly, film is one of the last vessels to satisfy the third rung on Maslov’s Hierarchy of Needs: sense of belonging. That’s why no matter how kitschy Chicago’s iconic Music Box Theatre is sometimes—between the house organist playing the keys before each showing, or the over-the-top audience laughter that can feel oh-so-forced—something about this space keeps bringing me back. This room, which first opened its doors in 1929, is sacred, in a way.
It’s opening night for Paul Thomas Anderson’s new film, One Battle After Another, and the instant classic-level hype proves its merit. Over a two-and-a-half hour runtime, violent twists are met with audible gasps from the crowd; Leonardo DiCaprio’s washed-up stoner, Bob Ferguson, garners both laughs and tears alike. The 70mm format captures the film’s desert beauty perfectly, and Johnny Greenwood (himself a veteran of the band Radiohead) delivers a tense score, offering a sense of hope alongside the madness.
By the next day, though, I won’t remember the crowd’s enthusiastic ovation so much as what happens next. Because for the next hour-plus, my friends and I proceeded to debrief the film over pizza, reveling in its depiction of America and debating its standing among the best movies of the decade.
Theaters may not be a venue to truly touch grass. But they are a communal living room where conversations are sparked and ideas are shared. For me, they’re a reminder for why I create in the first place.
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