Beware the NIGHT BITCH(ES)

especially in downtown Davenport!

On Friday night, a friend and I attended the screening of Night Bitch, a new film based on the novel of the same name, featuring an author appearance/Q&A afterward.

I loved the film— and the author’s interview responses afterwards — but let me tell you, there was as much drama in the luxury seats that night as there was on the screen!

As we headed into the Last Picture House, (which happens to be one of the coolest and best things to happen to any. Quad. City. ever!), I made a comment about how appropriate it was that the moon was out. ( I wasn’t sure Amy Adams’ character would actually turn werewolf, but clips made it seem like she would at least become part-dog.) It also happened to be Friday the 13th.

We each got a glass of wine and headed inside and found seats near the very back.

Before I go on, I will say that the movie has many amusing and/or darkly funny moments, but overall it’s really tender, an astute reflection on the treatment of women and mothers in our society, and on the love of a mother for her son— as well as her need (and her right) to also honor her artistic calling.

In the opening montage, Adams’ character, an artist who stopped working when she had her son, is mired in the more unglamorous, day-in-day out drudgery of parenting a toddler and being home (alone) with him full-time. It’s funny, and yet at the same time it’s clear that she is suffering.

“WHERE’S THE HUSBAND, CAN YA TELL ME THAT?”, someone suddenly shouted from the row behind. “I MEAN, WHERE THE HELL IS HE, HUH?”

“YOU KNOW HOW MEN ARE!” a similar-sounding voice responded. And then both of them began to cackle.

“YEAH! I MEAN, WHY’S SHE GOTTA DO ALL THE WORK! THAT’S CRAP!”

My friend and I had already exchanged glances multiple times by this point. We each took turns looking over our shoulders, like, “don’t mind me, just peeking around!” but in truth passive-aggressively giving the stink eye.

Their full-volume stream-of-conscious commentary continued, seemingly without even attempting to whisper. And then each ensuing laugh would linger in an extended trailing-off period mixed with smoker’s cough— and in almost perfect unison.

They had to be sisters.

They also, it took me forever to realize, had to be drunk AF.

The lady on my right, who I’d also exchanged commiserating glances, sighs and eye-rolls with, half-turned in her seat and said in their direction, “Oh come on, people!,” which seemed to shush them.

For about 30 seconds.

So she (wisely) gathered her coat and left, (hopefully finding a seat elsewhere.)

Soon it became like watching a director’s cut, with audio narrative being spoken over the movie itself. Every line, every scene, was commented/ cackled upon.

When the toddler was onscreen: “AWWW I MISS MY BABIES AT THAT AGE!”

When the husband, in his comfortable entitlement, said something cringeworthy (like having to “babysit” for one night): “OH YEAH YOU DAMN MEN. CLUELESS! YOU HAVE NO IDEA! Heh heh heh (repeat 20 times)! YOU NEED TO TELL HIM, GIRL!”

My friend and I continued to look at each other helplessly. Then the women both got up! And - as we watched in horror - made their way to the door, empty margarita glasses in tow.

I was beyond agitated. But I’m also chickenshit. So while they were gone, I turned around and whispered to a woman sitting by herself. “Excuse me, but… are you with them?”

“I am,” she said, soberly.

“So… um… some of us are kinda having some trouble hearing… you know? When they come back, would you be able to… kind of help— ?” I was kind, polite, and, well, pleading.

“I will try,” she said. I took her tone and expression to mean she was on my side. Maybe.

The cackling crows returned, fully re-fueled. I heard the sober one whisper to them. I gripped my armchairs. And then:

“OH WHAT, WE CAN’T LAUGH WHEN SOMETHING’S FUNNY?”

Fuck.

“NOPE, WE CAN’T LAUGH, GOTTA BE SO SERIOUS,” one of them said, adding a taunting Miss Priss voice on the last word.

I started to sweat. My friend and I gave each other the look, and without speaking, got up to search for seats elsewhere. But the only ones we could find were right in front, the neck-cramp zone. We tried to enjoy the rest of the movie. But at that angle, it was hard not to be distracted by the way Amy Adams’ head was weirdly squished, and her ears and eyes sometimes spaced weirdly in a way that brought Sloth from The Goonies to mind. And I was still having trouble relaxing, because I could still hear them.

Eventually, an employee entered and made her way to the back. We exchanged hopefully glances. “Yes!” I whispered to my friend. “Kick their asses out!” Satisfyingly, we heard a smattering of applause from that half of the theater.

But then, just as we were rustling up our stuff to move back to our seats: “HEH HEH HEH!”

Back to the front row.

Over the next half hour or so, if not longer, the same employee would come in and out again - (issuing “warnings,” I would later learn), until finally, on the third one, ushering them out. For some reason nobody clapped that time.

We did get back to our good seats, (and thankfully my eyes uncrossed). But I also now had to pee. I tiptoed out, and when I opened the theater door and stepped into the lobby, one of the women was standing a few feet from the door. “NOT ALLOWED TO LAUGH, WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!” she barked, seemingly into the air - and then, toward me. “NOPE, NOPE, CAN’T ENJOY A MOVIE. GOTTA BE SOOOO SERIOUS.”

I scurried to the bathroom—where I discovered the other culprit sloppily arranging her hair as she listed a bit to one side. As I tried to duck into a stall unnoticed, the first one began yelling through the door to her friend/sister/cackler-in-crime at the mirror: “YOU KNOW WHAT HE SAID? HE [I’m guessing the house manager] said …..[mumble/slur/I didn’t catch this part] ….because some people aren’t finding it FUNNY, ‘s what ‘e said.” She delivered this latter part with a shrug in her voice, like, “beats me.”

Yeah that’s it!, I thought as I waited-slash-cowered in the stall. It’s actually a knee-slapper, and the reason you got kicked out is the rest of us not realizing the genre! Der!

We eventually got to finish out the movie in peace. Afterwards, author Rachel Yoder, (a native Ohio-an who came to Iowa City for the University of Iowa’s (non-fiction!) writing program, shared with candor about the frustrations that inspired her to write the novel, and how gratifying it is to have had a woman director be inspired by the book to make her own art from it.

As my friend and I were leaving the building, as we passed the check-in kiosks by the main entrance, there stood- unbelievably - the most vocal heckler. And she was still heckling. “NOPE, CAN’T GO OUT TO A MOVIE AND HAVE A FUN TIME AND LAUGH IF WE WANT TO,” she slurred to anyone/everyone, (then adding a snipey “SOOOO SERIOUS,” at my friend and I).

Thankfully—considering the way the night had ensued—I did not later find her waiting at my car.

Photo by Ahtziri Lagarde on Unsplash

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Also: did you know that a bunch of Iowa writers have formed a group on Substack, creating & aggregating great commentary and reportage — almost like a good (great) ol’-fashioned newspaper? (I’m a member on [hopefully brief] hiatus!) Check out the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative and its roster of writers.