Netflix: I’ll Put It in My Queue

In addition to teaching me the proper spelling of the word “queue,” Netflix has managed to change my life. Dang. I’d thought that by now my life would have way too much gravity to be affected by a simple DVD delivery service—but there you have it. Movies in my mail; movies streaming over the Web on demand; conversations about Netflix; surfing Netflix; fiddling with self-adhesive envelopes to get the bar code visible in the little cut-out window; frequent, furtive late-night mailbox visits; trying to convince Mom to sign up … yup, I ’m hooked.

I’m only on the very basic two-at-a-time plan. I’m sort of a functioning, chronic Flix-aholic—but I don’t binge. I have, however, given up pretending I can quit anytime I want.

And it’s not like I was hurting for cinema options before this. I live in New York-freaking-City, after all. Under the influence of Film Forum, International Film Center (IFC), Angelika Cinema, Sunshine Cinema, the Quad, and all the mega-plexes that devote at least a screen or two to artsy and foreign stuff, I’d been a twice-a-week, ticket-in-hand, popcorn-chomping regular for decades.

Even my nearby neighborhood video rental shop was staffed by way-too-cool film nerds, and stocked with endless racks of movies, obsessively arranged by director and genre.

But even with all that wealth just outside my door, I sit here on my keister, burrowed into the couch, watching something shipped from my dear friend at the “Nearest Netflix Processing Facility.” I’m eating the pepper/paprika-flavored popcorn I made myself, and I’m just as happy as can be. I still fork out membership fees to my favorite venues and film societies, though more from guilt and nostalgia than enthusiasm. I just don’t actually go out to the movies much anymore.

New Yorkers include billable hours lost as a part of the cost of attending the cinema. We add to our calculations and scheduling the following: at least half an hour riding the subway to any venue, twenty minutes sacrificed to arriving early in order to get a decent seat, thirty minutes lost watching trailers and ads—oh, yeah—an actual movie, and then the time it takes for either a cab or the subway to make it back home. On top of the $11 admission (and prohibitive popcorn prices), all that wasted time makes it tough to justify a journey to the movie house.