The multiplex is a crime scene. You smell it before you see it—that cloying, synthetic butter-grease hanging in the air like a localized weather event. It’s the scent of $18 tickets and the quiet desperation of an industry trying to convince you that a sticky floor is a "premium experience." This weekend, the marquee looks like a frantic plea for help. We’re swinging wildly from the ghats of Varanasi to the business end of a butcher knife.

It’s a tonal car crash. On one side, you’ve got the delayed, weathered grit of Mohalla Assi. It’s a film that spent more time in legal purgatory than most startups spend in the black. It’s a relic of a different era of storytelling—slower, sweatier, and deeply uninterested in your attention span. Then, because the universe demands balance, we have Psycho Killer. It’s exactly what the title promises. No subtext. No nuance. Just ninety minutes of creative dismemberment designed to trigger the lizard brain of anyone who finds the news too boring.

Going to the theater in 2024 is an act of defiance, or maybe just a failure of imagination. We’ve spent years perfecting the home setup. We have OLED screens that can burn your retinas and soundbars that mimic a helicopter crash in your living room. Yet, we still find ourselves shelling out the equivalent of a monthly Netflix sub for a single viewing of a movie that might not even be good. Why? Because the "content" at home has become a background noise machine. You don't watch movies on your couch; you scroll through your phone while a movie happens in the same room. The theater is the only place left where you’re legally obligated to put the glowing rectangle away.

But the friction is getting harder to ignore.

Take the pricing. A couple’s night out now carries the same financial weight as a minor car repair. By the time you’ve navigated the "convenience fees" on the app and bypassed the gauntlet of $12 popcorn tubs, you’re $60 deep. And for what? The privilege of sitting next to a guy who treats the theater like his private office, narrating the plot to his disinterested date? That’s the real psycho killer.

Mohalla Assi offers a specific kind of friction. It’s a film rooted in the politics of space and the death of tradition. It’s satirical, biting, and decidedly un-slick. It doesn't care about your need for a three-act structure or a heroic payoff. It’s the kind of movie that makes you realize how much of our modern cinema is just CGI slurry poured into a mold. Watching it in a theater feels like an intrusion. It’s a local story being projected in a globalized vacuum.

Then there’s the other end of the spectrum. The slasher flick. This is the comfort food of the jaded. There is a perverse honesty in a movie called Psycho Killer. It isn't trying to win an Oscar. It isn't trying to "start a conversation." It’s a mechanical exercise in tension and release. You know the girl shouldn't go into the basement. She goes into the basement. You know the car won't start. It doesn't start. There is a weird, communal safety in watching a choreographed disaster with fifty strangers. It’s the only time we all agree on something: don’t open that door.

The industry is betting that this whiplash keeps the lights on. They’re throwing everything at the wall—prestige dramas, spiritual satires, and low-budget bloodbaths—hoping something sticks long enough to pay the electric bill. They’ve moved past the era of the "blockbuster" into the era of the "placeholder." Most of these films aren't events; they’re just reasons to sell overpriced soda.

Is it worth it? Probably not. You’ll leave with a headache from the boosted bass and a mild sense of financial regret. You’ll wonder why the projector was slightly out of focus and why the "luxury" recliner didn't actually recline. But you’ll also remember that for two hours, you didn't check your email. You didn't see a notification. You just sat in the dark and watched a man with a knife or a priest in a temple.

If you’re heading out this weekend, pack your patience and a flask. The movies are fine. The experience is a mess. But at least it’s a mess we can’t pause.

Are we actually paying for the movie, or are we just paying for a room where no one can reach us?