I’m late. The movie starts in five minutes, and I’m 13 away, trapped on the Red Line. The Brattle Theatre, in Cambridge, has a timeless feel, a faded red-brick barn in the federal Harvard style. But that does nothing to change the basic timeliness of a movie theater: the show starts now and won’t wait for you.
I belong to a generation that has taken for granted something radical: Movies come to us, so we don’t go to the movies. Netflix-and-chill slayed dinner-and-a-show, and few seem to mourn. Why should they?
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