I should start by saying I’ve read plenty of those “death of the theatrical experience” pieces, and this is not one of them. I watch too many movies to eulogize the format. This is specifically about advance screenings - the Thunderdome of moviegoing - where people who paid absolutely nothing somehow value the experience even less.


If you shell out nearly $20 for a ticket, you’ll probably at least pretend you care about the movie. Advance-screening diehards? They’re here for two things: free swag and the dopamine high of being internet-first. And maybe also the thrill of seeing if they can get a free refill on the same popcorn tub they’ve been using for the last 6 months. 


Now, among semi-professional movie writers, I’m probably alone in being genuinely excited for Five Nights at Freddy’s 2. I like the games, and I liked the first movie’s low-key world-building and unexpected heart. And between us, I was way more excited for this than for the prestige-branded “emotionally devastating” movies designed to ruin my week.


I was so hyped and terrified of spoilers I willingly subjected myself to an advance screening.


As Jake Sully once said: I see you.


I follow the rules at these screenings: show up early, sit quietly, avoid eye contact with the guy who clearly vapes in the shower. First red flag: no press section. This meant I was sitting with the general public—specifically the subspecies that treats these screenings like a competitive sport.


I leave my seat to get snacks and run into a rep I haven’t seen in ages. Mid-chat, our Third Act Antagonist enters like he’s been waiting in the wings for his cue. He interrupts us to ask for free posters. When the rep says no, he immediately tries to drop “insider info” about poster distribution. He’s wrong, but with the confidence of a man who believes he’s right.


He then asks about the giant character standees—the big four: Bonnie, Chica, Freddy, and Foxy. We’re standing by Chica, and I half-jokingly say, “I would fist-fight someone for Chica.” Yes, I’m a grown man. Yes, I once dragged my wife to the Five Nights at Freddy’s haunted house in Florida and I am probably on the spectrum. Some people love the Eagles. I love killer animatronics. Life is short.


Rando claims Bonnie, the rep gives us the okay, and I go take my seat.


Enter: The Parade of Distractions


A woman next to my seat asks me to move down for her friends. I’m a dead-center-of-the-row man. It’s a personality type. I offer to swap seats; she refuses and moves one seat over - revealing she’d been hoarding a buffer seat the whole time. Fine. Whatever.


Then Sketchy Guy arrives. He asks to sit next to me. He’s wearing shorts and flip-flops in 30-degree weather. I knew instantly this man was going to a pain in my ass.


Thirty-five minutes into the film, he takes out an iPhone held together by rubber bands. This is the horror movie. First a peek, then full texting, then email. I give him the “Dude.” He receives it about as well as a cat receiving instructions.


Enter the Whisperer. A man so deep in the FNAF lore that he must narrate spoilers in real time, like a basement dweller who only speaks in exposition. I try a “shhhh,” which floats aimlessly into the void. Sketchy Guy, frustrated by my continued existence, tries his phone again. I meet his eyes. He evaporates from the theater. Never returns.


Then Commentary Woman appears, loudly explaining the lack of real world logic that the people running from animatronics possessed by the souls of dead children lack, like she’s teaching a masterclass no one asked for. Between her and the Whisperer, one of my my most anticipated movies of the year has become one of the worst screenings of my adult life.


And Then: The Final Boss


I still have no idea how I feel about the movie. Which is a problem when you’re supposed to, you know… review it. 


As I’m leaving, I go to collect my promised Chica standee. And there’s Rando - standing guard, arms crossed, the standee turned around. I ask if it’s mine. He launches into a tale that his Bonnie was “gone,” so he asked another rep - one who wasn’t in the know - if he could have Chica. She said yes. So now it’s his.


I remind him he was literally present for the dibs-claiming ceremony. 


“No,” he says. “This is mine now.”


I tell him he’s being asshole, because duh, he’s being an asshole. He drags his kid over and asks, “So you’re calling her an asshole?” No, sir. You are the asshole. Your child is merely an unwilling prop in your weird little swag heist.


He then shields himself with his child like Captain America, pivots, and disappears back into the theater—with my standee.


I refuse to escalate. I’ve seen people throw hands over lesser swag. I walk away. The rep asks what I thought of the movie, and I - at my lowest point - shout, “That asshole stole my stand-up!” Not my finest moment. But understandable.


The Tragic Epilogue


In the end, I left not knowing whether I actually enjoyed the movie I’d been waiting for all year. My screening was 70% chaos, 20% annoyance, and 10% me wondering if I should’ve fought a grown man for a cardboard animatronic chicken.


I’ll probably wait for VOD. Reviews have been brutal, and none of my friends share my animatronic-pizzeria enthusiasm. Which is sad, because the movie could’ve used the positive press - and if my experience had been even slightly less cursed, it probably would have gotten it.