Have you ever walked out of the cinema mid-screening? If so, then you have my respect.
I’ve considered it a number of times. Johnny English had me feeling nauseous, partly due to John Malkovich’s bizarre french accent. Yet I sat there, dry-heaving into my Pick ‘N’ Mix bag. Why? Because I’d inadvertently signed a social contract. Somewhere the cinema had said: “First, pay us your money. Next, we’ll throw dung at you. Meanwhile, you will take it, lest you be judged.” (Sure, that’s probably not like any legal contract you’ve signed before but, after all, this is Hollywood. Or, in my case, the Milton Keynes Stadium Odeon.)
Walking out on a film is a statement. That strut towards daylight is one big finger up to the equally-big screen. It’s a public display of disaffection. It’s an act of MicroRebellion.
At least, that’s how I would feel. It turns out that some people don’t see it that way. The psychologist Amos Tversky was, according to Michael Lewis’s The Undoing Project, one of these people. If — as was often the case — a film wasn’t up to scratch at the 20-minute stage, then Tversky would just abandon his wife, and head home. (He would return to pick up his wife once the film had finished.) Tversky’s thinking: “They’ve already taken my money. Should I let them take my time as well?” He saw it as merely a sunk cost.
Most of us, though, have neither the rebellious nerve nor the pure logic to leave. Instead, we sit there and take it. I can guarantee that right now — somewhere in the world — someone is having a terrible time at the cinema. They want to make dash for it, but they can’t — it would upset too many people. So they remain rooted to that seat.
I feel for that person. I really do. Unless, of course, that person is John Malkovich.