Peak hour bums around the clock, slicked guys and busted girls at the Greater Union Hoyts Village complex on George Street stand in a thick depressing queue transplanted from the banks not open during the night. Taking the usual wear of sweat and dead skin, that creepy guy tries to sell a wristband to the homeless man with a photo of the Virgin Mary smoking a cigarette.
Words in the digital stream signal free passes to Bad Santa waiting at the box office for collection. Minutes are spent standing wondering whether or not wipe-on goo-invigorate sends a shock to the digestive system. Jimmy fronts the counter and walks away empty handed, ushered to the usher ushering at the first entry usher point of the cinemas. Waving through with nary a check, the double pass seems to be a figment of decisive understudy. Atop the escalator, ahead of cinema 9 are two more girls, one in a popcorn uniform, the other with a wad of passes and sheets of type.
Captain Dan introduces himself, for a reason unclear, as there is no Captain Dan on the list. That doesn't matter, as apparently no body else is on the list, those previous girls obviously lying about knowing anything. A closely held folder shuts out those not clued into a media screening for those looking to read promo pages in the dark. Violently shaking the right arm and a passing reference to pornographic advertising material sees the mess cleared and another girl, this one more apathetic than all previous, with no reason to stop the walk through now.
Jerks fill this process, the time better spent on staring at the homeless woman eyeing the man with no leg and wondering if perhaps her schtick could do with some improvement.
Seating slings low with people already avoiding one section of the back left. Lights dim quick, warnings whisper out and no trailer greets the interlude before Bad Santa starts proper.
Reviewed on Friday, 12 November 2004