The Midnight Show

I feel like I've been a little bit out of the loop on the Harry Potter hype lately. When the last book came out, we had the date on our calendar for months ahead, and we got all dressed up and trekked down to the bookstore for the big midnight party and everything -- but I didn't even realize this latest movie was coming out until a couple of weeks ago, when the kids asked if we could go to opening night. "Sure," I said, without really registering that this would involve going to a midnight show on a Tuesday, with work for us and camp for them the next morning. For the kids, of course, that was at least half the attraction -- that and the free popcorn on offer at the Columbia City Cinema for anyone in costume.

So on Tuesday when we adults finally came to our senses and declared that no, we would not be journeying into Columbia City to spend the wee hours of the morning having the bejeezus scared out of us by deatheaters, werewolves, and inferi, you'd have thought we had murdered a small animal at the dinner table.

After an initial period of weeping and railing, the children suddenly got so dang quiet and cooperative that we began to suspect they were plotting to sneak out to the show (and we almost wanted to let them, just to see how far they'd get...). When we caught them smuggling the black cloaks out of the hall closet, we confronted them on this point, and they sheepishly explained their plan: to get into their costumes and come downstairs looking so adorable that we'd just have to take them. To the party before the movie, at least. "Oh," we said, "is there a party before the movie?" Well, we relented, maybe we could get into costume and go to the party.

Faces lit up all around; there may even have been squeals of delight. But when we called the theater to get details about the party, we were told that no, there was no party. Just the movie at midnight. "And there's only ten tickets left, so if you're coming to the show, you'd better get down here quick." More tears, foot stomping, lower-lips jutting out dangerously far. "Sorry guys," we said. "It's just not gonna happen. We shouldn't have gotten your hopes up."

Simon continued to ask why we couldn't go over & over until Amy told him to can it, but then seemed reconciled to his fate, in a slightly bitter sort of way. Sarita and Martha seemed similarly at peace with the outcome, mostly. Josie, in contrast, was definitely not over it. She'd forget about it for a couple of minutes, but then she'd remember, and her face would crumple up and she'd emit this squeaky growl of frustration. You could see it was killing her -- especially because she felt like she was old enough to go, even if her little brother wasn't.

"I'm sorry, honey. I know you're disappointed," we would say -- and she would stomp her foot and glower and not meet our eyes.

Now the thing is, we really were sorry: partly for jerking everyone around by not saying no from the get-go, but even more because deep down, we actually really wanted to go. Which is probably why we kept wavering and wobbling, raising and dashing hopes over and over again. Like when we pulled Josie aside and said, "Look, don't get too excited... but there's, like, a ten percent chance I could take you after Simon is asleep." She jumped up, eyes widened, hands clasped in front of her mouth. "But it's probably sold out by now, so don't get your hopes up! Why don't you call and see."

So she called. And it was sold out. Damn. She slumped again.

Then Amy suggested that we might be able to get in anyway. "Not everybody who bought a ticket is going to show up, you know..." (As an actress, Amy has some expertise in this area.) We debated the likelihood that this would work out, and weighed the consequences if it didn't: could our daughter survive another crushing disappointment -- at midnight, on the cold sidewalk, watching a jolly crowd of costumed ticket-holders filing inside to see the movie? When we broached the subject with her, she brightened, but warily. We could see her struggling not to get excited. "What are the chances that we could get in?" she asked. "Five percent? Two percent?" We said we didn't know, but we were willing to go check it out.

So after Simon went to bed, blissfully ignorant of the whole precarious plan, Josie and I donned our black cloaks and headed out into the night. We arrived in Columbia City at about 10:30. As we parked we spotted several groups of Hogwarts students roaming the streets, but we found the theater locked, the bad news posted on the door:

But as we stood balefully on the doorstep, our friend Paul (the owner) arrived to help his harried staff prepare for the magical mob that was about to invade the place. We slipped inside after him and stood there, painfully self-consciously but nursing a small seed of hope, while he consulted with Jim (the projectionist) and a young ticketseller whose name we didn't catch. Which is really too bad, because he's the one who piped up, when Paul finally turned to us and said, "Yep, it's sold out," to point out that "sold out" meant 200 tickets sold, but that there were actually 204 seats in the theater. We felt Josie's whole body tighten up a notch.

"So does that mean there's room for us after all?"

"For you?" said Paul, "Of course."

Whew! After peeling Josie off the ceiling, we dashed across the street to the cash machine, bought two tickets from the young ticketseller (who really just wanted to go home and take a shower, he said, as we thanked him and thanked him and thanked him again), and joined the line outside, which by now stretched down the block.


(Now, it's quite possible we could have gotten in even if we weren't FOP -- Paul later announced that he was setting up some folding chairs up front, "because there are some people outside who just really need to see this movie. Tonight" -- but it definitely felt like we had cashed in a wad of our Columbia City cachet to get those tickets. And it was totally worth it just for that moment when Josie's crazy emotional rollercoaster ride finally resolved itself in her favor, and the fireworks of pent-up excitement erupted at last.)

Surrounded by buzzing teenagers in Hogwarts neckties and sweater vests, with long robes flapping and wands waving everywhere, and even a bearded Dumbledore wielding a glowing staff, we were mighty glad we had grabbed those black cloaks on our way out the door.

Finally the collective alohomora energy of the crowd prevailed and the doors opened. We grabbed our free popcorns and enough pop & chocolate to keep us awake for the next three hours, and found a perfect spot in the third row. And there we were at last: two hundred and four jacked-up Harry Potter fans packed into our red velvet seats, happily picking out our favorite characters among the costumes, cracking Mad Eye Moody jokes, and (in one case) standing up and shouting "Avada Kedavra!" when the lights went down.

And the movie? Stop here if you haven't seen it yet. I liked it a lot, mostly. The teen romance parts are enormously entertaining, the evil antics of the deatheaters are suitably menacing, young Voldemort is creepy as hell, and the scene in the cavern with the potion and the locket and the inferi is terrifying. But we felt -- as we often do with the Harry Potter movies -- that somehow the heart of the book was missing.

In this particular book that moment -- for me, anyway -- comes just after the cavern scene, when Dumbledore is reeling, weak & confused (because Harry has had to force him to drink goblet after goblet of poison in order to empty the basin and retrieve the horcrux locket). Harry is terrified & appalled, but puts on a brave front, trying to sound reassuring. He says "It's going to be all right, sir... We're nearly there... I can Apparate us both back... Don't worry..." and Dumbledore says, "I'm not worried, Harry. I am with you."

Now, when I first read this scene, I had to close the book until I could collect myself. No Harry, Dumbledore is no longer the eternal protective force you've always been able to fall back on. He needs you now. And no, you're not ready for this shift, not remotely. But you have to find it in you somehow. Haven't we all been there at some point? (And wouldn't it be something if all such transitions were heralded by such simple -- though perhaps wildly optimistic -- expressions of faith?)

In the movie, Dumbledore is weakened by the potion, but recovers quickly enough to drive off the inferi with an apocalyptic overkill of exploding flames, and remains very much in control up until the moment Snape sends him tumbling over the Astronomy Tower wall to his death.

Oh well. It's still a fine movie. When all four of us went together on Friday night (Step One in the long effort to win back the trust of Simon, who felt truly betrayed that we snuck out to the midnight show without him -- and without telling him) I noticed more of the things they added, and less of the things they left out. Like that lovely bit where everyone's standing around Dumbledore's crumpled body, and one by one they lift their wands in the air, and the little lights from all their wands go shooting up into the sky and drive away the horrible Dark Mark floating menacingly over the castle. Very nice.

Yes, it was a fine movie, and a magical evening. It occurs to me that by the time the next movie comes out, Josie may well be at the stage where she'd rather spend twenty years in Azkaban than be seen with her mother at a midnight show -- another reason to be grateful for all the stars that aligned to make it possible this time.