I have to go get drunk now, but first, duty calls: we damn near let 2008 end without bringing you this face. It is the kisser of James Joseph Cialella Jr.--as Hoke Moseley said in Miami Blues, I'd hate to meet Senior--who, as was reported here, was spending the birthday of Christ our Lord trying to enjoy The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, no mean trick to pull off under any circumstances. Mr. Cialella was comfortably parked in a theater seat for which he had paid plenty of his good, hard-earned money, having shelled out additional funds for some delicious popcorn, because he knows that that's how theaters make their nut, which is why he would never buy Milk Duds on his way to the theater and sneak them in tucked into the band of his sweatpants like some people I could name. Suddenly, like a car smashing through the front window of a funeral home in the middle of mama's wake, an unidentified piece of shit and his dimwit son came rolling into the darkened room, rude as Frenchmen and hopped up on God knows what illegal substances, and proceeded to act as if they owned the place, running their goddamned mouths and jabbering away like cavemen in wonder at the strange images being projected before their beady, bloodshot eyes. Mr. Cialella, generously taking on the role of spokesman for the rest of the audience, implored them to show some courtesy and be quiet, or better yet, climb back into their Monstermobile and return to their garbage-strewn hovel for another stimulating evening wondering who's playing thet purty music every time the Child Services people ring the doorbell. They refused to heed his call for basic civility, as they felt that it would violate their sacred vow to Mordor. The best part of the story, and the part that I find most touching, is that, after shooting the father in the arm in what turned out to be a successful effort to get him and Pugsley to shut the fuck up, Mr. Cialella then sat back down to watch the rest of the movie in what was now a much quieter and emptier theater, a man basking in the fruits of his honest labor, until the cops showed up and yanked him out of there.
People are divided on just how totally justified Mr. Cialella was in his actions. A police spokesman shared with reporters his opinion that "It's truly frightening when you see something like this evolve into such violence," after which he went out into the snowy parking lot and broke down in tears as some eight-year-olds played "keep away" with his hat. A more soundly reasoned argument comes from blogger Scott Marks, who simply asks, "Do you think that David Fincher made a three hour film for yahoos to blab through? And what kind of a role model was the victim, encouraging his son to talk during a movie?" Marks proposes that "Mr. Cialella’s handsome photo should be flashed during pre-show entertainment on movie screens across America as a warning to all potential inconsiderate disturbance makers." It's all well and good to look to the future, but there's still a matter of the central injustice here: it appears that Mr. Cialella still hasn't seen the whole movie! If Fincher doesn't make time at some point in the busy holidays-to-awards season to arrange a private screening for him, the director of Alien3 is no friend of art.