Movie-going in Taiwan
One of
the main forms of escaping from real life for me is going to see a movie.
Usually it works pretty well, but sometimes it backfires, mainly because of
the way moviegoing works here in Taiwan. Although the films themselves are
the same as you would find in, say, the U.S., there is an entirely separate
context in which they are viewed in Taiwan.
Step One:
Buying a ticket. First of all, lining up can be a problem because, due to
a lack of comprehension of the basic concept of the Line(odd when you consider
the fact that mathematics is the strong point of so many Chinese). Instead,
there forms a general mob outside the ticket windows, as if the previous owner
of the tickets just died without leaving them to any particular relative and
now they are being auctioned off to the most aggressive Little Old Lady. "Lao
Tai-po’s", as they are popularly known in Chinese, constitute the most
aggressive segment of Taiwanese society, a well-known fact to those who frequent
bus stops, post offices, stores, and, of course, ticket windows of any kind.
Lao Tai-po’s demand our subservience, I suppose, out of a mixture of Confucianism,
Crankiness, and several generations of loyal, thuggish, and generally well-connected
relatives.
Even after
you have won your way through the various deathmatches with all of the Lao
Tai-po’s present, fought off all of the homeless persons who are trying to
sell you Wrigley's gum and actually reach the window, you still have to get
the woman behind the bullet- and glare-proof plexiglass to sell you a ticket.
Whatever you do, don't just say "One, please." That would just be
asking her to seat you in the front row all the way on the left so that you
exit the latest Bond flick looking like the rough yet lovable character "Club
Foot" in the latter three or four Huang Fei-hong flicks. Or if you look
particularly clueless, she might just put you in a restroom stall. So be sure
to go scope out the actual theatre you plan to watch the movie in, pick your
row and seat so you can impress the woman with your theatrical prowess.
Step Two:
Watching the movie. Expect people to keep entering the theatre and wandering
around, trying to find their seats, up until the final credits roll. Unlike
in the States, Taiwanese theatres tend to start their 30-minutes of TV advertising
at the scheduled time, instead of giving latecomers a few extra minutes. Once
the movie starts, in order to understand what is going on, it is best to be
able to understand Chinese characters, even if you are watching a romantic
comedy with Meg Ryan. The reason for this is the consistently high noise level
in Taiwanese theatres, the origins for this noise lie in:
1. Children. Even if you are seeing
the XXX-rated "Naughty Nun-munchers From Hell, part XVII," Taiwanese
parents will bring the entire family, the younger half of which will spend most
of the time crying, talking, running around in those shoes that squeak with
every step(this is purportedly so the parents can keep track of the wee ones,
although if junior decides to jump off a balcony all the parents would hear in
warning would be: Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, long pause, SQUEAK!!)
Children also while away the long hours talking with schoolmates on their
mobile phones. Which brings us to the Second Origin:
2. Mobile phones, pagers, etc. Not
only do Taiwanese audience members refuse to turn these disturbing devices off
in theatres, they can't even bear to switch on the soundless alarm, where the
unit shakes instead of beeping. Many patrons, perhaps overwhelmed by the
complexities of a performance by Jim Carrey, will actually pull out their
standard cellular, dial up a number, and start chewing the fat with Uncle Chen.
And, speaking of chewing, the Third Origin of Noise in theatres is, of course,
3. Eating. It is common practice to
bring your meal into the theatre, each item individually wrapped in that
especially noisy kind of plastic which Taiwanese scientists have perfected over
the years, the kind that will retain its basic shape and sound well after the
sun dies, millions of years from now. Under current etiquette rules, bags
should be picked up off the floor for each bite, crinkled for at least ten
seconds, and then put down with at least enough force to cover up the
soundtrack for a mandatory 3 more seconds.
This kind
of behavior, of course, has been ingrained into the Chinese psyche over the
course of centuries. In the European tradition, all the rich people with hyphenated
names in the township would dress up and go to the Operahaus where they would
silently examine the latest master's magnum opus from a stylish balcony box
with engraved opera glasses. In China, however, roving groups of artists would
set up a open-air stage in the middle of the village and put on an afternoon-long
show of classic Peking operas, the lines to which everyone knew by heart.
People sat on wooden benches, ate, talked, walked around, and generally all
but ignored the opera players except for certain parts, like fighting scenes,
and certain actors, like Meg Ryan. That's just the way it has always been,
and that is the way it is now. People are resistant to change. At the Warner
Village theatres, there is an effort underway to persuade people to accept
Western-style moviegoing, but not all is going smoothly. I saw a couple almost
faint when their 2-year-old wasn't allowed by the ushers to see "Revenge
of the Blood-sucking Previously-Dead Nymphomaniacs from Idaho, part XXI."(Three
minutes later, however, there they were, sitting in the theatre, sans offspring.
I don't even want to know what they did with junior.) And some of the less-adaptable,
when told they couldn't bring their own snacks into the theatres, expressed
their exasperation by deliberately getting their heads stuck in wall niches
halfway up the escalator. Adding to the general pandemonium were several cartoon
connoisseurs who demanded, in the interest of "continuity," to have
the guy dressed up as Sylvester the Cat to actually catch and eat the guy
dressed up as Tweetybird.