ChickSpeak

 A reflection of one writer’s experience at last night’s Harry Potter and the Order of the Pheonix premiere showing:

I woke up the morning of July 11, 2007 as any ordinary muggle who had a late night run in with the wizarding world would-dazed, confused and, although not able to recall details of the event, left with the distinct impression that I had witnessed something magical. 

I am your average Harry Potter fan, although after my experience at the midnight showing of the fifth film, Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix, I’ve come to realize that my love for wizardry is better likened to my affection for coffee: something I will always crave, appreciate and risk addiction for, but whose robust flavor will keep most of my senses at bay.

I met my brother at the theatre at 10:30 pm to stand in line for our early morning screening.  He stood anxiously at the front with my ticket and before I could get through the line to enter, dashed down the darkened corridors of the cinema to reclaim our spot in line.  Once the 15 year-old high school sophomore who worked to tear ticket stubs and sweep up stale popcorn, just to receive free movie posters tore my ticket in half, I elbowed my way through a lobby packed with Potter enthusiasts.  I’ve always been somewhat critical of “Potter-mania,” and my first impressions of the scene that lay before me briefly inspired harsh assessment. 

Eight theatres screened the film, and each theatre had a line of fans patiently waiting outside the door for admittance.  Some sat against the wall reading.  A few eager young boys dressed as Potter dueled with wands made from pipe cleaners and aluminum foil.  Hoards of adolescent females dressed as Catholic schoolgirls and demonstrated their best, albeit wildly inaccurate, impression of Hermione Granger. 

I approached my brother and made some offhand comment about the circus contained inside the theatre, whereupon he informed me that there were too many people waiting outside to keep under control.  The police ordered the theatre to let fans in early to keep them out of harm’s way.  Not realizing I had stumbled across a federally inspired evacuation plan, I looked around me and noticed that the crowds of people lined up against walls reading magazines and knitting potholders under flickering fluorescent lights resembled the refugees one might see cramped inside a hurricane shelter.  Only rather than hurricane evacuees they were your typical social outcasts and rather than a hurricane buffeting the walls of the theatre, a quiet storm of normalcy raged outside.  I sighed and prepared myself for disaster.  

Sitting down, I immediately fell into a sort of cinematic pre-game tradition, better known in my mind as tailgating for Trekkies.  Jumbo tubs of popcorn circulated through the lines of fans.  Exhausted ticket holders slurped large amounts of soda to keep their energy up for the screening, as though they were boxers refueling for another match.  Realizing I might be witnessing cinematic history, I graciously accepted a few M&Ms from a couple sitting next to me and laughed to myself when the man kissed his wife and said, “My stomach must be on its night schedule.”   

Nervous night managers in maroon blazers and tapered black pants hurried us into the theatre at exactly 11:50pm.  Ten minutes later peppy young girls introduced the film and begged viewers to turn off their cellular phones.  “No one here would dare to answer a phone call during the film anyway,” I thought as everyone around me listened intently to the prescreening announcement.  The young girls told us to enjoy the film, whereupon a loud jock from the back pumped his fists in the air and shouted, “It’s going to be awesome!” Everyone applauded.  Once the applause died down another voice shouted, “Frodo lives!”  Then laughter broke loose as the lights dimmed.  Hearing another voice bellow the very same sarcastic comment I had prepared, but didn’t have the guts to whisper to my brother, made my overly critical mind feel at home in a theatre of fans who, not only have a commitment to Harry Potter, have a sense of humor about themselves.  My opinion about Harry Potter fans quickly started to change.    

As the film progressed, the audience, including myself, booed at Professor Umbridge’s proclamations and Cornelius Fudge’s refusal to acknowledge the return of You-Know-Who.  We laughed at Filch’s attempt to corner the DA, cheered when Neville successfully produced a patronus charm, and catcalled when Harry Potter had his first kiss.  During a time of intense political unrest and cultural stress in the real world, a theatre filled with strong-minded individuals rooted for good to win over evil-and for Harry to engage romance in the process.  After the film ended and the morning of the 11^th arrived, I couldn’t help but feel camaraderie with the countless people I had unfairly judged the night before.  I now can admire such enthusiasm and have even come to embrace it.  Harry Potter fans can make even the harshest social critic smile if for no other reason than in addition to believing in magic, they create it.