The movie about a ditzy New York girl was shown at two New Orleans theaters and stopped playing after two weeks.
Checking Box Office Mojo, oh my. In 3hundred plus theatres now, made less than $2,000 per theatre. Now, my math is not my strong suit, but I calculate it this way: Ticket prices average around $16.00. Some places charge as much as $18.50. But I think $16.00 is a good representation per locale. Some theatres only have three run times; others have as much as six, some two. Say an average of five showings at different times per day. So, if a movie in 355 theatres only makes $1,933 per theatre, at an average ticket price of $16.00, then that means around only 120 people attended that movie showing at a theatre for that week. Which, divided by an average of five show times, means that perhaps 24 people attended each showing.
There is a strong love of independent film in New Orleans, Baton Rouge, Oxford, MS. But the catch is that they don’t like movies that are mediocre pretending to be clever and smart.
Now I did see a rather sickening interview with Peter Travers and this director and for all the gushing that went on with Travers and fawning over this person, it knocked the retchometer right off the charts. Think I knew part of his interest: “Can’t wait to discuss your nude scene in Consenting Adults!” “That was a body double,” came the retort. Maybe one scene was, but not all of them. Travers seemed in awe because this person, who has nothing but time on her hands anyway, is writing another project. She works until four–oh, incredible. But I will give him one high mark….”should I call Lady……(surname)–“No, call me_______________, or you could (call me Lady….) Lord, she was wanting it. Travers: “I think I’ll just call you—-first name.
Now, believe it or not, I am finding all of this terribly amusing. It’s the Emperor’s New Clothes over and over again. I find I’m laughing at the Fickle Finger of Fate. Walter Brennan would have called them, the Heelots…can’t imagine what old Abe Lincoln would have had to say about it all. That’s a hoot to imagine. You commodity fetishismist, you.