It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to enjoy a private screening of any Hollywood film. By “private,” in this case, I mean completely open to a public unwilling to punish themselves by watching a movie like “Transylmania.” And it’s certainly not a good sign when the box office attendant looks confused when you ask for your tickets. But that is how this movie-going experience began: confusion and emptiness.
As the previews began, a sense of dread washed over us all, similar to the feeling of having the assistant call your name at the dentist’s office. Bad things were about to happen, the only question was “how bad?”
