In the olden days, which, according to historians, ended a few months ago, people used to do the strangest things. They exchanged what were known as “hugs,” presumably a unit of currency, or else “handshakes,” which, judging by the name, may well have been a strain of palsy. “Going out for a drink” entailed gathering at some form of communal well, an obvious source of infection. There was also something called “making out.” Ethnological research has identified this as ritualistic playacting, often terminating in humiliation. No activity from that far-off period, however, seems as inexplicable as this: humans went to the movies.

Details are scarce, and memories are hazy, including my own. But I seem to recall that we sat in a blacked-out room, in rows, and frequently in discomfort. We did so of our own volition, and paid for the privilege, even though screenings began at an appointed hour and—imagine this!—the content had been determined, in advance, on our behalf. Interactivity stood at zero. We could neither quicken nor freeze the action, and those wishing to follow a narrative in its entirety were forced to develop ferocious bladder control. Drinks and foodstuffs were allowed, but only if purchased on the premises and guaranteed to promote active dental decay. Why we tolerated these outrageous restrictions on our personal liberty, and why some of us persisted in venturing out to the cinema rather than staying at home to view a product of our choosing, while snacking on crap from our own fridge, is a puzzle that may never be solved. Perhaps our minds were unsound.

Now, of course, that option no longer exists. Movie theatres are closed across America, especially in the larger and denser cities. Even if you stumble upon a venue that has remained open, stop and think. In all honesty, you should no more watch a new release in the company of coughing strangers than you should visit your grandma and give her a birthday hug. And, anyway, what is there to watch?

One of the first signs that COVID-19 would play havoc with our moviegoing habits came with the news that 007 was running scared. The world première of the new James Bond film, bearing the deeply unfortunate title “No Time to Die,” was meant to take place at the Royal Albert Hall, in London, on March 31st. Oh, to be in England, now that Bond was there! The plan was for the movie to open in the United States on April 10th, and the publicity machine had been pumping away for months. The trailers were out; the talk shows were booked; the Aston Martin was having a final wax. Then the blow fell. “No Time to Die” will now be released in November—a relief for Daniel Craig, who can throw his tux back in the wardrobe, put on a sweater, and get out the Scrabble board, but a wrenching loss for the rest of us. The chance to revel gaily in the latest Bond production, and then to lament that it wasn’t as good as the last one, or the one before that, or the one with the Japanese volcano, comes along every four or five years, and is connected to the great circle of life. Without 007, how shall we endure the spring?

As with Bond, so with “Mulan.” Disney and other studios have delayed the explosion of their major films. Marvel has shunted “Black Widow” to November 6th, and another of its offerings, “Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings,” all the way to May, 2021. I’m not sure I can wait that long. “A Quiet Place Part II” has tiptoed softly to September, and other follow-ups have taken to their heels; somehow, we must get through this year without fresh installments of “Peter Rabbit” and “Fast & Furious.” Maybe those two should cut their losses and merge into one mega-sequel, with Vin Diesel as Mr. McGregor.

Procrastination, though, is not the only game in town. There has also been brinkmanship, with the studios eying each other and wondering: Who will be the first to blink? Who will think, Screw it—let’s forget about a motion-picture event, scrap the launch, and switch to a streamed release? Prophets of a gloomy bent believe that history is curving in this direction anyway: that cinemas are fated to fall into disuse, with tumbleweed rolling in the aisles, and that the future of film belongs online, where the new Spielberg, say, or the new Bong Joon-ho, will have to hold its own against outtakes from “Friends” and videos of cats wearing hats. If this argument is correct, the coronavirus has merely hastened the inevitable, and we should honor, not pity, the movie that has paid the ultimate price, forgoing the majesty of the large screen for the sake of a digital download. Such a sacrifice will never be forgotten. That movie is “Trolls World Tour.”

The first “Trolls” movie came out in 2016. It made three hundred and forty-seven million dollars. If, owing to some tragic oversight, you failed to see it, you should know that it was a candy-colored, song-stuffed, sparkle-strewn, computer-animated film that hymned the virtues of dancing, hugging, and finding your happy place. For those of us who assumed that a troll was some gnarly bastard from Norse legend, or a costive hermit harassing celebrities on his laptop, these rebooted Trolls, inexorably genial, came as a surprise. They made the Cabbage Patch Kids look like the Trojan Women.

The new film repeats the prescription, with a spoonful of scares to help the sugar go down. The dainty-hearted Queen Poppy (voiced by Anna Kendrick) learns that Barb (Rachel Bloom), who rules the Rock Trolls, wants to eradicate all other kinds of music, not least the meaningless pop that lends both value and depth to Poppy’s existence. With the aid of her pal Branch (Justin Timberlake), Poppy embarks on a mission to save Trollkind, and to slather us with a message of creamy togetherness. All yours to rent, for just under twenty dollars.

But will you rent it? The rationale is clear enough. With families trapped inside by COVID-19, and children out of school and starting to climb the walls, a hyperactive new movie ought to be just the ticket. Also, twenty bucks is less than you’d pay at the cinema for yourself, your kids, and your silo-size Cokes. Yet the sum feels extortionate when you’re shelling out at home, perhaps because it carries a sweaty whiff of boxing bouts on pay-per-view. You half expect Tyson Fury, and you get Queen Poppy. In short, “Trolls World Tour” is a test case. To date, having earned almost a hundred million dollars online, this proud herald of the streaming age is well on the way to finding its happy place.

Thus far, of all the films that were made with meaty budgets and destined for a wide release, “Trolls World Tour” alone has traded the multiplex for a slot on your TV, or your annoyingly cracked phone. Smaller independent movies, though, are already making the jump, as if more confident of recouping their costs. Take “True History of the Kelly Gang,” adapted from Peter Carey’s novel of the same title and directed by Justin Kurzel. Set and shot in Australia, it stars George MacKay (who played the lone hero in “1917”) as Ned Kelly and features Russell Crowe, impenetrably bearded, in a minor role. The total budget, I reckon, might just about have covered the special effects in “Black Widow,” not counting Scarlett Johansson’s boots.

Source: Newyorker.com

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