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Copyright © 2002 by Shane
Tourtellotte
First published in Analog Science Fiction
and Fact, July/August 2002
"Every movie theater in America will have a memory blocker
in three years. That is, every one that stays open."
Al Yost narrowed his gaze on the visitor in his office.
Mister Roderick was young, tall, blonde, and handsome, perfect
pre-formed Hollywood product. His glow made Al feel his own
imperfections keenly: exactly what a salesman promising to
fulfill his needs would want.
"You and your people are making a lot of assumptions,
Mister Roderick," Al said.
"Please, call me Jim."
Not while you're smiling that way. "Why would people
want to forget a movie before seeing it?"
"Because most people have learned too much about that movie
before they sit in one of your seats. The publicity machines
see to that. May I?"
Roderick was reaching toward the binder labeled Caledon
Bijou--Future Releases by the computer. Al nodded,
regretting for once that he hadn't moved his records to
handhelds.
"Look at the summer releases, Al. I bet you could already
recite the full plots to most of the big movies." He leafed
through the pages. "Infinite Reflection, sure; The
Last Time; Strike Force 2; oh, Animals!--and
who doesn't know all about Episode Seven already?"
"You're asking the wrong person," Al said, taking the
binder from Roderick's hands. "I'm owner and manager. I'm just
staying on top of my business."
"That's the trouble. Everybody's on top of movies these
days. The studios chase customers with preview spots on TV,
"Making Of" documentaries, promo websites. What the producers
and studios don't give away, Internet snoops dig up, like it
or not."
Al shrugged. "People can always steer clear of those sites,
and the TV programs."
Roderick shook his head. "We're an information society.
People use those previews to decide what to see. That's why
they're made. But it takes away spontaneity, freshness. By the
time people come here, their appetites are half-sated by
watching the best clips in commercials or "All Hollywood" or
downloaded cut-scenes. Some people see so much, they don't
bother with the movies."
"They could trim back the previews ..." Before Al could
finish his thought, his eyes fastened on the framed King
Kong poster behind Roderick. In its day, that was close to
cutting-edge publicity. "... but you'd lose customers to the
more aggressive entertainment outlets," he finished pensively.
Roderick beamed. "Exactly! We can't escape that race, but
we can escape its bad effects on the audience, with the memory
blocker." He stood up, making expansive gestures. "The
publicity campaign draws them here, but before they go into
the theater, our machine suppresses their foreknowledge of the
movie. They make the informed decision to watch, but get to
see it fresh and new.
"Theaters have improved service before to hold audiences:
wide screens, sound systems, digital projection. This is the
same principle, but bigger than those incremental changes.
This is the innovation movies need to reverse their loss of
audience."
He stood, grinning, waiting for Al's reply. Al pushed his
chair out slowly. "Okay, Jim, I'm listening." He kept his
voice cool and skeptical.
Roderick went into the theater proper, pointing out the
best places for installation. He recited size and capacity
figures, installation requirements, and safety features. He
had the perfect sales patter. Had he been a little less
polished, Al would have been a little more convinced.
"I am going to give this serious thought," he said once
Roderick would down. "It is a sizable investment."
"And an excellent one. You can have everything in place
before the summer season starts."
Al glanced through the glass of the doors, at the snow
still falling outside. "Depends on when you count it starting,
Jim. I can remember when it actually began in the summer."
Roderick laughed. "Imagine that. Sure is before my time."
He dismissed the abrupt stiffening of Al's smile. "Fair
warning, though, Al. I've already visited the West Meadow
Cinema, and the Elmford Odeon 8. I got very positive
receptions there, and I'm due at the Barton Cineplex in less
than an hour. You might not want to be the last on board,
especially if there's a production bottleneck."
"I understand." He shook Roderick's hand, keeping up a
friendly smile. He would definitely be doing some research
tonight.
Al spent an hour online at home after the Bijou closed that
night. He found several sites describing induced neural
inhibition, and gleaned enough to know that the process was
not fakery or hypnosis, but a real effect inside the brain.
Beyond that, the jargon set his head throbbing.
He slipped into bed, not disturbing Elaine, and set his
alarm an hour early. He needed extra time in the morning to
make calls, to find out whether this was actually safe.
He contacted both his family physician and the neurologist
he had seen for tests three years back, when he had those
dizzy spells. His regular doctor said yes, neuroscience had
reached that level of sophistication, and it could work, and
be safe. The neurologist said much the same thing, in more
words.
Al wanted to pursue the issue, but it was Saturday, and
Saturdays meant matinees. He went in to work, a full half-hour
before any of his employees arrived, two hours before first
showtime. It gave him time for more thinking.
He caught the second showing of Winds in the Valley,
the Oscar contender finally rolling into wide release. He did
that with most new movies, less for himself than to catch
audience reactions as they watched, to assess the
word-of-mouth that would help determine how long a film would
draw paying customers. This one looked to have staying power,
even if it would be staying at a moderate level.
How much would these people reveal to their family and
friends, to induce them to come here? It did seem a pity to
pick out threads of such a tight plot, before someone got to
see it as a whole. Such dissections were better left for film
classes in ten or twenty years.
Of course: his old film professors. He could imagine them
sniffing at the modern media saturation impinging on the
purity of films. It was time to ask them what they thought.
It occurred to Al that if he was seeking out advice,
confident of what it would be, he had to be leaning that way
already. Well, maybe he would be surprised.
He was, in the wrong way. Of the four cinema professors he
remembered having at Clairmont University, two had died, and a
third was retired and seriously ill. Thirty years hadn't
seemed that long to Al, at first.
With his free Sunday morning time dwindling, he reluctantly
put through a call to Armand Dunphy, the last man on his list.
That barking voice had taken on a croak with the years, but it
sent shivers of recognition through Al. He reintroduced
himself to Dunphy, and encapsulated the memory blocking
technique. Dunphy began scoffing before Al had finished.
"Idiotic. Movies are not about surprises. To any attentive
viewer, there can be no surprises in movies. They are all
products of external context, the contemporary culture as
filtered through directors, writers, actors, anyone with a
creative drive. If you know your times, and know the people
making the film, you will know that film before watching a
frame.
"What movie-goers don't realize--and what you, Yost,
apparently have forgotten--is that the real interest in a
movie derives from the interactions of creative drives that go
into making it. The actual celluloid or digital file is
usually a pale silhouette of those collisions. Repressing
foreknowledge is pernicious, Yost. Don't do it." Dunphy
cleared his throat. "I hope I've helped you."
Al leaned back in his chair, wrung out. Now he remembered
why he had switched his major to business administration, and
only minored in film. This soul-sucking pedant had almost
killed his love of movies in college.
"Yes, Professor Dunphy, you have definitely helped make up
my mind. Thank you, and good-bye."
Roderick was unavailable the first time Al called him from
his office. As time and work intervened, his backlash against
Dunphy cooled. The man was a prisoner of his own theories--but
so far, all Al had about the memory blocker was a sales pitch
and his own musings, just different kinds of theories.
In theory, with its actors, director, and effects, the
remake of Tron should have been last year's biggest
hit. The audiences--small ones--had proved differently.
Al waited for the lull when all the movies were in their
first showing, and headed back to his office. This time, he
got Roderick.
"I'm almost convinced," he told the salesman, "but I need a
demonstration. I'm willing to pay for a week's trial run--"
"Sorry, Al. We aren't set up yet for theaters and current
releases. Besides, I'd be giving one theater an unfair
advantage."
"I don't mean at the Bijou. I mean at my house."
Al swore he could hear Roderick grinning over the phone
line. "That's what I hoped you meant."
The work crew muscled the apparatus down the basement
stairs, and through the doorway of Al's personal theater. A
widescreen console dominated one long wall, with a sofa,
chairs, speakers, and disk-shelves consuming most remaining
wall space. Al made room in one corner, leaving just enough
space to squeeze through the doorway.
He looked over the machine, nearly as tall as he was, with
a dark, glossy plastic housing. He gingerly picked up the
metallic net on its roof, keeping the wires from tangling. It
looked fragile for something so powerful.
"That's the miracle worker," Roderick said, taking it from
Al. He loosened the tie of his perfectly tailored suit. "The
mesh goes over the head, the green disk in front, and cinches
here." He tightened the strap under his chin. "The less hair,
of course, the better the fit. This'll work great on you, Al.
No offense."
"Of course."
"Now, once it's on, you push these buttons--all three, to
avoid accidents. The mesh sends electrical impulses into the
brain, corresponding to scenes, dialogue, and sounds from the
movie. It maps the neurons that fire in recognition: that's
where the memories are. It sends a second series of pulses
inhibiting those neurons from firing. No firing, no memories."
He reached a hand toward a slot beneath the control panel.
"Once it's done, a chip comes out here. It records the pattern
that was imposed, so it can be reversed completely after the
movie is finished."
Al's eyebrows went up. "And without that chip?"
"Don't worry. The act of watching the movie repotentiates
some neurons--reactivates them, that is. There's also a
generic restoration protocol programmed for each movie, that's
nearly as effective. For new releases, where we're only
suppressing previews and spoilers, that's more than enough. Of
course," he said with a grin, "you'll be using the classic
library."
He handed Al a set of plastic-coated sheets. "Hundreds of
titles. Should match up with your collection pretty well.
We've got support from most of the major studios and video
libraries. They're hoping we can produce home systems in a few
years, after the theaters prime the market."
"Sounds like you have all the bases covered." Al ran a
finger down the first page. Periodic gleams flashed in his
eyes.
"Remember, we have to take this back on Saturday, but
you've got five days to try it out. In fact--" Roderick went
over the workers. One of them nodded, and he came back
beaming. "I fact, you can start right now."
Al smiled wryly, looking at his wristwatch. "Nope. Too
close to opening time."
"On a Monday? Oh, yeah, King holiday. Well, business before
pleasure, right?"
Al answered the ingratiating smile with a mild nod.
Water sprayed from the shower head. Marion Crane soaked
under it, turning slowly, enjoying the feel. She had repented
of her impulsive crime, resolved to return the money. For the
first time in the movie, she looked relaxed. The relief of her
cleansed conscience matched the washing of her body.
Good symbolism, Hitch, Al Yost thought.
In her languid bliss, Marion did not notice the approaching
figure, made gauzy by the shower curtain. There was no warning
undertone on the soundtrack, just the hiss of the shower.
Al began tensing, but with a single thought the pressure
eased. It was too early. Janet Leigh had second billing on the
disk box cover, resting in the far corner of the sofa. One
might menace a main character less than halfway through the
movie, but not kill her.
"Nice try, Al," said Al with a chuckle. He settled back off
the edge of his seat.
The curtain parted. Violins shrieked. Marion shrieked. The
editing turned frantic with the struggle, but all throughout
was the knife--the knife--the knife--
Al's mouth hung open, as the camera spiraled from Marion's
staring, lifeless eye. He did it. He did it. He didn't
mean the killer--the shadowed figure was female--but
Hitchcock. He shook his head, but the shock lingered.
"Mother! Oh, God, Mother! Blood. Blood!"
Poor Norman. Poor, trapped Norman. Could he break away from
his mother's wicked hold? Would he fall under her knife by the
end?
Al stopped those thoughts. Look where speculation had
gotten him already. No, he was going to sit back, relax, and
be shocked.
Okay, maybe not relax.
"I was blindsided. I never saw it coming."
He had told Elaine all about his experience with
Psycho, in the short time between her return from work
and his departure for the Bijou. That hadn't been enough. He
was repeating the story to Lucy Morgenstern, his assistant
manager, as they restocked the concessions.
"Did it feel normal?" she asked dispassionately. She knew
of the memory blocker only on a business level, and was
examining it as such. "You weren't disjointed or confused,
like amnesia?"
"No. It was a clean hole in my memory. No loose ends. There
were three sequels to that movie, and a remake. If I had
remembered any of them, the illusion would have popped, but it
didn't." He chuckled, still feeling a touch giddy. "Those
scientists have really hit on something."
He pushed in the stack of Twizzlers she handed him. "Lucy,
I know you're scheduled to be off tomorrow night, but could I
ask you to switch?"
Lucy looked him over. "Is it really that good?" she asked,
a smile peeking through.
Al turned red. "If it's inconvenient--"
"I'll do it. Enjoy yourself." She retrieved a box of
popcorn tubs. "So what's the coming attraction?"
"I'm not sure yet. The scheme's based on new releases,
though. I should probably pick something recent." He snapped
his fingers. "The Reflection War."
Dave Keller approached the spaceship, the distorted image
of his spacesuit playing across the broken silvery hull. He
climbed through the gash behind the ship's viewport, his
flashlight sweeping in one hand, his sidearm steady in the
other. Jay Bucklin was close behind, but the camera stayed
fixed on Keller.
It had been a good movie so far, very well executed space
opera. Invaders had descended upon an Earth that had just
achieved starflight, apparently intent on driving them back
home, out of space. Their mirror-hulled ships were nearly
invincible. The intruders never showed themselves, and not
even their smallest vessels fell captive, vaporizing
themselves instead.
This picket ship was the first, brought down by the story's
heroes on the fringes of the desperate battle to hold the
Moon. They both risked a delayed self-destruction and landed
their fighters to investigate. They were prepared for
something terrible, but not prepared enough.
It was Keller who found the pilot, of course. Osment still
had that perfect anguished, haunted look. He used it to the
hilt as his character looked down on the dead crewman, the
frozen, contorted, unarguably human face reflecting in his
helmet visor.
The movie's swift pace went into overdrive. The
protagonists salvaged the wreck, returning it to Earth against
withering opposition. The scientists labored to find the
gateway to the parallel universe, and to reason why their
mirror-brethren had attacked. Jay Bucklin, played by Lloyd in
full action-hero mode, flew the test ship that produced their
first wormhole.
It also produced that beguiling image of two Earths hanging
in the heavens, his own pristine, the other ravaged, with raw
impact craters disfiguring half of North America.
Soon came Keller's mission to the other Earth. He learned
the reason for the war from mirror-Bucklin, as hardened and
scarred as his home planet. They had ventured to the stars,
only to be discovered and decimated by the rabidly xenophobic
Doztak, and confined to Earth on pain of extinction. These
humans had reached across universes to spare their other
selves the wrath of the Doztak, inflicting pain to prevent
greater pain.
It was a Devil's bargain--and David Keller found himself in
a ghastly sympathy with his enemies.
Al watched through to the end, and sat a few minutes
afterward, thinking. Psycho had surprised him with
shocks and twists, virtuoso horror. The Reflection War
had surprised him with unexpected depth, a moral predicament
transcending its comfortable genre trajectory. He wondered
whether this movie, for that daring, wasn't the better one.
With that in mind, he went to the machine in the corner,
donned the mesh, slipped in the memory chip, and ran the
restoration program. Like a shower of glass shards leaping
upward to reform into a window, the memories came back.
He remembered the full-bore publicity campaign that had
lain the movie's secrets bare, then downplayed them to hype
the effects work. They exposed the big revelation scene on the
Moon, just to show how the reflection motif borrowed from one
of Osment's earlier movies. Even the poster--Al dug for the
disk box under a throw pillow, where he had buried it. It used
the same poster art with the twin Earths, the cratered one
outlined by the wormhole boundary's faint glow.
The fools. They ruined this movie. They turned
something that satisfied on all levels into another popcorn
movie, one that would be hurt -- hurt! -- by the accolades of
high-brow critics. Yes, it managed enough receipts to spawn a
sequel, and yes, the studio was ruining that one, too.
Al had been baffled and disappointed when it happened. Now
he was incensed, barely able to restrain himself from slamming
his fist onto the machine. They really were their own worst
enemies. They really needed this contraption to save
themselves.
He calmed himself with long breaths, while running a finger
gently along one edge. He could call Jim Roderick now with his
decision--but why would he want to give this back just yet?
Elaine briefly misunderstood Al when he invited her to A
Night at the Opera that evening. Once he explained, she
accepted his proposal, but not the opportunity to use the
memory blocker. He relented, if only to have an objective
observer see how harmless it was.
The Marx Brothers were on the cruise ship now, with Groucho
scandalizing Margaret Dumont by making himself at home in her
cabin. He finally agreed to depart, at the price of her
promise to meet him in his own stateroom in ten minutes.
"Because if you're not there in ten minutes, I'll be back
here in eleven. With squeaky shoes on."
Al chortled. That was a pretty risque line to sneak past
the early Hays Code. They must not have grasped the
insinuation.
As Groucho reached his stateroom, Al noticed Elaine holding
back laughter. "His walk isn't that peculiar," he whispered.
"It's not that. It's the--" She stopped her hand in
mid-motion toward the screen. "You really don't remember?"
"No. What's going to happen?"
"Nope," she said, "I'm not telling." She drew an imaginary
zipper across her lips, and pointed back to the screen.
To get Margaret Dumont alone in his tiny stateroom, he had
to shoo out Chico, Harpo, and a third stowaway who in earlier
movies would have been Zeppo. Since they wouldn't leave
without eating first, Groucho summoned a steward and ordered
everything he could think of.
"And two hard-boiled eggs!" Chico said.
"And two hard-boiled eggs."
"Honk!"
"Make that three hard-boiled eggs."
Other people began arriving on various pretexts. Groucho
turned nobody away, and they all crowded inside, the chaos
growing exponentially. Soon Al was clutching his sides,
struggling to keep his watering eyes on the screen. He caught
glimpses of Elaine, very amused herself, stealing glances at
him.
Was there a touch of envy in those baby-blues? A little
regret, perhaps? He didn't think about it long. Margaret
Dumont was in the passageway. She, and Al, were about to get
quite a surprise.
He had the first inklings of his idea as the opera
concluded. They became a full-blown plan the next morning, as
he watched the blockade runner zoom away from the camera,
followed by a monstrous spearheaded warship raining laser
bolts upon it.
Why should the Bijou be stuck using the memory inhibitor
for new releases only? Why should people have to wait years
and shell out thousands for the chance to see the classics of
cinema with fresh and innocent eyes?
He had always wanted to devote one of his four screens to
classic movies, to set up like one of the handful of oldies
moviehouses still struggling along. The numbers had never
added up. People could see those films in their homes. The
theater experience held insufficient allure. He might break
even, or net a bit of change, but playing the latest Hollywood
product would always be a better investment.
Now it was different. Now he had something no home theater
could match. He could play a forty-year-old science-fiction
movie--though granted, some of the special effects looked
considerably newer--and pack them in. He could give people
bottled nostalgia, undiluted by all the sediments of time.
It would be such fun.
Al was glowing by the final scene, and only half from the
movie itself. He went to the machine, but just as he realized
he had two chips in his pocket, he found the sticky-note he
had left himself: "Not so fast. Watch The Empire Strikes
Back first."
That jogged his memory. "Who am I to argue with myself?" he
said. He went upstairs to fix a sandwich for lunch, then sat
back down to watch the sequel. There was some worthwhile twist
coming, if he could trust himself.
He spent much of that evening at the Bijou trading ideas
for New Look Night with Lucy. It was a Thursday, with the
usual sparse attendance, and they quickly hit on Thursdays as
the best time to drop a new release in favor of a classic.
There would usually be a movie at the end of its string
anyway, about to yield to a premiere, so it would cost almost
no revenue.
One screen would be enough to start. If the showings sold
out consistently, they could always add more screens, or more
nights. Al even dreamt of reviving his old fantasy, of
dedicating a screen to augmented oldies full-time.
"That's up to the audiences," Lucy cautioned him.
He nodded. "Maybe so ... or maybe it's up to us to pick the
movies they'll come to see."
That was the fun part, compiling a list of classics to
screen, striking a balance between critical paragons and
popular favorites. The little persuasion Lucy needed toward
his plan, that exercise provided.
It also provided Al with a multitude of options for his
Friday morning viewing. He struggled with the list for ten
minutes until, disgusted with his indecision, he flipped a
page of the guide and thumped a finger on it.
Casablanca it was.
He came away impressed, as he expected, though with a vague
dissatisfaction. The impetus for the climactic scene came from
without, not within. Rick could not possibly reclaim his lost
Ilsa, not when she was married, not in that age. The Breen
Office had surely torn up that ending, forced Warner Brothers
to compromise or lose the movie altogether. The writers did a
good job of recovering, but it left Al soured that they had
to.
He put the webbing over his head and started the
restoration. His scalp was still tingling with the machine's
work when he realized what a fool he had been.
The writers wanted Rick and Ilsa together, but the Code
made that impossible. Then they tried to separate them, but
the war made that impossible. They couldn't bump off
Nazi-fighter Laszlo, and killing Rick or sending him to a
concentration camp--they really thought of that!--was
intolerable. With the movie half-filmed, they still had a
place-holding ending that made Rick weak, self-pitying,
miserable. In desperation, Warner Brothers called in other
studio writers for help, including one Casey Robinson.
Robinson, the Utah Mormon, the outsider, saw what the
Hollywood denizens could not: that compared to the ordeal of a
worldwide crusade against tyranny, the passions of two people
didn't amount to a hill of beans. Ilsa would stay faithful to
Laszlo, and his cause, and Rick would regain something else he
thought he had lost forever.
And the writers would walk off with Oscars for Best
Screenplay--though not the uncredited man who had shown the
nobility in doing right.
Al dropped onto the sofa. How he had misjudged this movie,
all from forgetting an inside story he had known since the
first time he watched it.
No, that was wrong. He had learned it right afterward--from
Elaine.
They had sat together at the showing by the Clairmont
Cinema Club, acquaintances from class but no more. He had made
some witless comment about the movie after it ended, probably
the one he had just thought of, and she had taken him aside to
tell him differently. They ended up talking for two hours, and
began dating a week later. She saved his interest in cinema,
the interest Dunphy did his best to smother.
Dunphy. Of course. He had assigned the class to watch
Casablanca, making sure to spoil it first with his
maledictions against its submission to the Hays Code. It was
his comment he had parroted to Elaine, his impression left on
Al's mind even after the machine. Thank heavens for Elaine.
The irony was that she had refuted Dunphy's assertion of
outside influence with the example of another outside
influence.
Al laughed with the recollection, then suddenly lost all
his mirth. Not once during the whole movie had he thought
about Elaine. This movie. Their movie.
Elaine found him in the basement theater hours later.
Strains of The Blue Danube were playing from the
stereo. "Sorry I'm late, Al, but I--"
She found his arms suddenly around her, his head nestling
against her shoulder. "Al," she gasped, and began returning
the embrace. "Is something wrong? Shouldn't you be off to the
Bijou already?"
"I told Lucy to fill in." He laid a kiss on Elaine's neck.
"I've been busy."
"With the memory suppresser? I thought that was for movies,
not music."
"It seems to work for both." He let Elaine go, and turned
off the playback. "Roderick may have a broader market than
just movies. Concerts, art, opera, novels, anything you want
to experience anew. It works across boundaries, too. Excuse me
a moment."
He donned the net, and slipped in the reversal chip for
2001. Now he could remember the whole waltz, rather
than the disordered pieces the first treatment had left with
him. It had been the same earlier, when he tried to recall
Star Wars and The Godfather after blocking his
memories of the sequels. Memory was not perfectly discrete,
and the machine preferred to do its job too well rather than
not well enough.
Elaine tilted her head. "You don't sound that enchanted.
Al, if you're not sure about this thing, maybe you could let
me take a test run, to give you a second opinion."
"No, not necessary. Besides," he said, taking her hand, "I
already have plans for us to watch a movie tonight that don't
involve this contraption in the slightest."
"Really? But Al, if you're still not sure about--"
"I'm sure, honey. I'm sure."
Roderick shook his head sadly, as the workers manhandled
the machine up the stairs. "You know I think you're making a
mistake, Al."
"I know you do, Jim. Maybe I am--but I can't make this big
a business commitment on 'maybe.' If I'm proven wrong, if this
works without a problem at other theaters, I can always order
it in a year or two."
"Two years is a much longer time than it used to be. A
business that falls two years behind usually doesn't catch up,
ever."
Al nodded very slowly. "Then you'll be able to sell the
upgrade to your customers that much better in three years.
"Look at what happened to the Caledon Bijou. I tried to tell
Yost, but he wouldn't listen." Sounds like an effective pitch
to me."
They climbed the stairs, and Roderick offered his hand at
the back door. "Keep my number on file, Al. You don't have to
wait two years to reconsider."
"I know, and thanks." Al shook his hand. It was hard not to
like the guy ... when he had a little humility as leavening.
The summer season came, and the Bijou was the only theater
within ten miles that did not have memory inhibitors
installed. The media were full of stories about them, even the
entertainment shows whose influence they were supposed to
combat. By the middle of May, Al could see the downturn at his
box office.
His son Jason was back home from college by then, and
working at the Bijou over the summer. Jason couldn't believe
his father was so willfully behind the times, and told him so
with the boldness that comes of new-found independence. Al
didn't tell him about his experiments. He had never even told
Elaine about that one particular movie.
Jason took the silence as an admission of defeat. "I guess
I won't be seeing Infinite Reflection here," he told
his father. Al still said nothing, thinking perhaps he
deserved Jason's insolence.
Infinite Reflection opened big on Memorial Day
weekend, except at the Bijou. It held up strong on following
weekends, and caused a huge spike in sales and rentals of the
original movie. The first uneasy rumbling began on scattered
Internet sites, but it was the splashy expose on "All
Hollywood" that broke the scandal.
People who took the memory inhibition before seeing
Infinite Reflection had curiously spotty memories about
the movie they had just seen, and about its prequel, after the
reversal. Many of them became repeat viewers, and stopped by
the local video store for good measure. The evidence was all
anecdotal, but there were multitudes of anecdotes. Viewers by
the thousands were convinced they had been rewired to need to
see the movies again.
The media and the theaters accused the studio of
manipulating moviegoers' minds for higher profits. The studio
blamed theater owners for tampering with the machines to
benefit themselves--and a curiously high proportion of those
owners did have financial interests in local rental stores.
Memory suppressers went into mothballs. Box-office grosses
plummeted. Congress ended up canceling its Independence Day
recess to hold special hearings, which resulted in a lot of
politicians appearing on "All Hollywood," despite its title.
Al Yost didn't watch the hearings on his day off, after the
biggest July 4th weekend his scandal-free theater had ever
posted. He had a previous engagement with Elaine, at Rick's
Cafe Americain.
Jason peeked inside as the credits played. "How often have
you two seen this thing?" he wondered.
Elaine whimsically bounced a popcorn kernel off his head.
"Not often enough."
"You tell him, Elaine. Have you ever seen
Casablanca, son?"
"Uhhh ..."
"Then sit down." Al moved over, pulling himself closer to
Elaine. "And if you're lucky, once it's finished, I'll tell
you the real story behind the movie."
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