Let’s Go To the Movies: The Inevitable Crucifixion of Potential First Date Chemistry AKA A Drunken Review of the Film Beautiful Boy

by Fabrizio Villalpando

“Please silence all of your devices and enjoy the show.” Light dramatically escapes the theater.
Black.
‪My date silences her cell phone.‬ I look at her. She looks at me. Our flirty expressions connect and cut through the darkness like sun rays slicing the early morning horizon. We share a genuine moment. Just two people collaborating in the human condition, creating memories and enjoying each other’s company. A pair of strangers, using stories, smiles and laughter to chisel away at unfamiliarity and cure loneliness.
The projector screen expands. The film’s title-card appears. ‬
“‪BEAUTIFUL BOY.”
My date initiates conversation. She must be thinking out loud. This has to be a mistake. This is not supposed to happen. This is highly inappropriate. I’m left speechless. I hope she joins me. Silencing ourselves is implied when silencing our cell phones.The film continues. Plot is thickening. Characters are developing. My date is unaware. She continues to speak. Although her voice is sweeter than honey, my date’s words travel like an angry swarm of bees amongst the reasonably irritated crowd. She utters shamelessly. She has become a linguistic AR-15 carelessly pumping .45 caliber rounds of sweet nothings—intended for my ears only—into the audience. Her speech is pleasant to the ear like a warm pit of crackling embers. ‬The crowd only sees a chemical fire. We are a flaming buoy in a sea of etiquette abiding citizens, determined to extinguish her immediately and effectively.
Timothée Chalamet shoots up heroin.
My date asks about my relationship with my father.
“Excuse me?”
I respond with a whisper. She repeats herself. Louder.
Jesus Christ, woman.
“I heard you just fine.. I just.. Never mind.”
I whisper back. She continues to not whisper. I don’t know if she is being caring or invasive. However I feel like she’s treating this movie like an open mic night. The movie cuts to a flashback. Steve Carell, a caring father, reminds his baby boy of how much unconditional love he has for him. The film cuts back to present day. Baby boy is now older and pumping hella horse into his veins. Timothée Chalamet cowers into a fetus. Drugs feast on his cerebral cortex. It won’t be long until his mind deteriorates back into its original state, when it was pickling for 9 months in his mother’s uterine brine bath. He cries deeply. His tears are heavy. How much longer can he fight until he loses the battle against himself.
My date begins a new conversation.
The film score swells. She makes a comment completely irrelevant to the cinematic art that many paying audience members and I are trying to experience. The cry of violins drown the character’s vocalized torment. This evening’s feature presentation is one tar-laced tear away from hitting its darkest depths. My date’s sweet but disruptive words remain at the surface. She cuddles up closer to me but continues to speak as if four seats divide us.
Heroine.‬
How do I politely ask her to stop talking?‬ My heart pounds anxiously. The audience must be furious.
The air thickens.‬ Butter.
My palms perspire.‬ Cocaine.
Noise continues to escape her mouth.‬ Audience members desperately investigate the unwanted sound. My date has become a liability. Heads turn. All the social classes of the movie-going community collude against us. Candy smuggling bums. College frat boys inexpensively cheating on their girlfriends thanks to student discounts and the anonymity of dimly lit auditoriums. General admission ticket holders, not much to say about them. I could even see the pretentious Premium Rewards Club Card Members roll up the sleeves of their turtleneck sweaters. Simultaneously sucking down 72oz of Pepsi-Cola with their reusable Indiana Jones collector's edition soda canteen. Oh and we can’t forget those toothless butterscotch sucking yokels. Forgotten dust farts and their AARP senior citizen discount cards, one stroke away from ever being able to see another “Motion Picture.” My date’s conversational antics caused the downfall and crumble of the movie theater hierarchal divide. A meeting is conducted with the heads of the five families. Any and all differences, prejudice and animosity amongst the social classes are temporarily pardoned for the sake of fighting for what is right. Silence. I feel the tension rise as she spits on the face of ethics. She is equivalent to bringing a typewriter into the library. Her word count increases. Her volume remains just shy of what would be considered an “outdoor voice.” Twizzler wielding vigilantes drop their candy. They have an appetite for justice now. I lean toward my date.
Meth.
‬She leans in toward me, following my lead. Her long lashed eyes gently close. Her lips, ready to receive mine.
Oh no.
This is a misunderstanding.‬ The theme song to Larry David’s two time Emmy award winning show, Curb Your Enthusiasm, begins to play in my head. I laugh to myself. I am hilarious. A chuckle slips out and figuratively slaps her in the face. She thinks I’m laughing at her. Fuck.
Heroine.‬
Be charming. Be charming. Be charming.‬ Eye contact. ‬
“You’re just about as beautiful as you are loud, and I think this whole theater can hear you.”‬
Backhanded compliment, nice work. Be casual. Remember to smile. ‬
“But seriously, I’d love to talk but let’s wait until after the movie is over, yeah?”‬
She seems upset. ‬Quiet, but upset. ‬
More Meth.
I’m a dick. ‬
More Heroine.
Steve Carell, a grown man, sobs in front of his son. Am I turning into my father?‬ I should have ordered a drink or five at dinner. At least I have my leftovers for later. Damn. A Pad Thai Epiphany. I am experiencing a change of heart. ‬Dinner was actually quite lovely. I’m sitting beside a generally nice girl. The ‪movie is pretty great too, all things considered.‬ It’s almost the holiday season. And I have never had hemorrhoids. Live is good. Steve Carell smiles at the miraculous survival of his now, 14 month sober and recovering baby boy.‬ Timothée Chalamet smiles back at his supportive and unconditionally loving on-screen father. I, a proud viewer of they’re inspiring life story, smile along with them. Things are looking up for everyone. This is a good night. She looks at me... ‬‪I look at her… ‪Pounds of delicious heroine stare directly into the eyes of Timothée Chalamet.


He immediately relapses. The film’s deceptive transition into the third act lulled me into a false sense of trust and optimism and ultimately manipulated the illusion that a ‘‘happily ever after’’ style ending was a possibility. An unexpected twist, a la early M Night Shyamalan warranted shock like seeing a rabbit pulled out of a hat. Except this was far less magical and far more shocking.
This point in the movie was like witnessing a child wearing a top hat being pulled out of an elephants ass. Ta-da. She won’t stop talking. I lost hope in her ever being quiet. She was ignoring an artistic display of humanity's darkest realities all for the sake of being cute and curious. The film is climaxing. The movie screen assaults us with a  hurricane made up of dirty needles and the tears of emotionally exhausted loved ones. The script writer posing as a literary Poseidon. Passionately constructing and developing a story with the decisions that were made by our “based on a true story” protagonist who makes antagonizing himself look easier than sticking a needle in a dead man's ass. The film turns dark.


A vicious storm of self harm and constant relapse rip through the front doors of the abandoned building addiction calls home. A rundown brothel secreting death in all forms. Satan, that clever old embodiment of famine, genocide and charm. An alluring creature made of evil specialized in perverting all things pure and sacred. Ol’ Luci and his leathery red crooked tail, whoring himself out, made to order for any weak-willed fuck job who has a sweet tooth for self destruction. Rocks, crystals, pills, powders, uppers, downers, liquids, syrups.. whatever gets your dick hard.
My date asks if I’m ticklish.


The lost and helpless life of the young drug-soaked soul cinematically descends into an endless void of despair in front of our very own eyes.
She tries to find my tickle spots. I refuse to entertain her cheap flirtation.
My date shuts up for a moment.
Beautifully acted black tar laced carnage ensues for our troubled lead character.
The storyline now murderously fists our dreams and hopes for a happy ending. The plot immediately lays a bloody plague infested shit. The hemorrhoid flavored cherry on top of our mutilated cum filled positivity. Next door, the characters self discipline is being aggressively finger fucked while his morality gets forcefully sodomizing with a dirty industrial sized heroin needle. A.K.A a rusty dope-filled strap-on with a bucket of methadone flavored lube on the side. Just incase you run out of the good stuff.
Overdose.
My date relapses.
Overdose.
Once again she begins to ramble.
Heroin. All the heroin ever.
Is she apologizing for talking? Oh God. Fuck no. Oh please oh fuck no God. She repents audibly. The irony is killing me. Audience members begin to orchestrate a mass suicide. Shall I drink the Kool-Aid? ‪The heroine is killing Timothée Chalamet. Don’t tickle me.
Someone bring me Kool-Aid. Now. Steve Carell is not sad anymore. ‬He’s just disappointed.‬ Has he finally given up on his son? I should probably return my father’s phone calls. End credits roll along with the heads of all the audience members. My date has a puzzled look on her face.
The haunting scent of stale popcorn and fleshy iron suffocate the room.
Blood.
Blood everywhere. Like the slippery communal trash can inside a sorority house full of young supple snatches all synchronized to the same monthly cycle.
“I don’t understand the ending..” She says.
My heart begins to cry.
“We should do this again sometime.” I say back to her.
Remember to smile.