It was a night of firsts at the local bijou.
First, we heard a non-mechanical whistle from a few rows back. A whistle that sputtered and grumbled and caught, then went silent. It's an old theater that plays second run movies, a cheap place to sneak away for a tiny reward. Then the noise started up again, sounding somewhat human, like breathing hampered by a very large tongue, or a mouth-breather with a condition. The sound deepened and revealed a pattern, then we all knew it--someone was snoring.
Mere minutes had elapsed since the scant previews, the opening sequence still playing, the film's protagonist yet to be introduced, and the guy in row 38 is chainsawing a forest. No one looked, though many stifled a laugh, a few didn't stifle anything. I kept waiting for the man to be nudged by a cohort, but as the wheezing continued, growing in volume, I suspected he must be alone. People were getting up and moving closer to the screen, while I was counting to 10, to 20, to 30 before I planned to get up and poke him myself. And then there was silence, except for the sounds of our protagonist emerging from the water.
Later, at a critical juncture in the film where an extreme close-up was employed to heighten our horror, the back door of the room swung open with a thud, spilling white light on the audience. A disjointed assembly of youths came streaming in, following the two aisles to the front of the house, they criss-crossed in front of the screen, screaming wildly as a burning man was fighting for his survival on screen. It didn't take long to forget about them and their tomfoolery, but not everyone had forgotten. In the lobby after the show, a harried group of people short on real-life excitement were filing a police report on a pack of kids who wore hoodies in the dark.
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