An incomplete history of me being somewhat grouchy at a handful of movie premieres

I wrote a silly little book once – out of print, who cares – and in that silly little book I documented a moment when I was expected to review a film based on seeing it at its premiere. Sometimes they do this to you: no press screening, it's just folded into a premiere, you're shoved into an assigned seat in the middle of a long row off to the side, stuck, waiting for the producers to finish thanking people so that the movie can begin one hour later than its start time.

I do not begrudge anyone these things. They should have these things. I believe that the people who make the movies deserve this moment, a little – or large – party to mark the happiness that takes place before the movie goes off to its box-office life, a moment before critics love or hate it, before audiences buy tickets or ignore it, before streaming submerges it in the quicksand of too many choices. Premieres are great if you’re the filmmaker or Chris Evans or anyone who happens to be the center of attention that night. They’re also good if you’re the organizational non-star who made the whole event happen, the in-charge person who inspires fear and obedience in people around you because you’re running it all and bending it to your will. For film critics, however, premieres are very often less than ideal scenarios.

A press screening is good. It's just you and the other people you see all the time at press screenings. It's not crowded or loud. You don't feel left out because you weren't invited to the premiere. You're fine with that. You did not have to attend the mandatory work meeting.

Because I want people to have the party they deserve, I would like to be left off the list so that we can all have a good time. I don’t hate-enjoy being there. I want to be at home. I want to be at home roasting a chicken for dinner, then watching dumb old TV movies – such as Someone I Touched starring Cloris Leachman, a 1975 film about venereal disease – and then going to bed at 9pm. But when I must be there, I like for one fun thing to happen for my own amusement, if possible, save for injuries to anyone but especially to me.

The premiere I wrote about in my silly little book was the best one. I don’t remember the name of the film. But Colin Farrell was in it and it was a western and pretty bad – not because of Colin Farrell – but I remember him doing pushups? I think? I definitely remember that he and Scott Caan took off their shirts and had hilariously styled hair. My night took a delightful turn when I accidentally sat next to Days of Our Lives star Patrika Darbo and learned that she is quite friendly and will chat up a total stranger.

I bring a book with me. If I have time to kill I want to have my little book. So after mocking me to my face for this practice (“Who does that?!”) Ms. Darbo was a fun hang for 40 minutes while we waited for the event to get moving.

There was a film version of the stage musical The Fantasticks. Joey McIntyre from New Kids on The Block was in it. It was the last film from director Michael Ritchie. Made in 1995 and shelved for five years, trimmed from 109 minutes to 86 minutes, then released in 2000. Something went wrong. Who knows what. Technically, the thing I wound up at was not a premiere. There was, instead, a small-scale cast and crew screening at a private screening room, and, I am so sorry to all the people who were there to celebrate their accomplishment, but critics were invited. I had crashed a sad kid’s birthday party. Like their mother said, “You have to invite people you don’t know, and their parents are making them come, and when the party is over they’re going to write articles about how shitty it was. Happy Birthday.” It was a long time ago but I recall they had some food there, and it felt inappropriate to eat it when I shouldn't have been there in the first place. I also recall not hating this doomed movie.  "They Were You" is a very good song.

There was a premiere for a Marvel movie, I forget which one, but it was massive and took up an entire block of Hollywood Boulevard and at the time people I knew were envious that I got to go. But all low-level press – I have always been low-level press – were funneled through what amounted to a human gauntlet of walkways and security checkpoints. Imagine being in an extremely long, slow-moving line for the Haunted Mansion. They take your phones. The movie was fine. Really long, on top of the intros and speeches. Endless. The getting back to my car another labyrinthine process. Now I’m just whining. But I’m going to keep doing that. I have an early bedtime.

My namesake, an actor/director/producer named David White, whom you might recognize because he became something of a meme – sat in front of me at the premiere of the Hillsong documentary, the one about their very popular and large house band, not the one about how Hillsong is a den of wickedness. The band seems nice. They had a big hit Death Cabby anthem about God that was about nine minutes long and the movie climaxes with them performing it. Effective. This premiere was my second favorite, because though I’ve been outside of the Evangelical world for like 35 years I still love observing them. I did not bother Mr. White because I did not want to speak to him. He makes relentlessly shitty movies and I think God dislikes this.

Argo. I went the wrong way down an entry carpet because no one stopped me. That means security was not tight enough. I wound up standing right next to Ben Affleck and that should never happen to him. His life should be free of me. He’s quite tall.

One of the premieres of one of the Final Destination movies – not the race track one and not the freeway one, one of the other ones and no, I cannot recall which – was held at Grauman's Chinese Theatre. My assigned seat was next to a woman who spent the entire film coughing up something. I assume she recovered, but because I never saw her again, who can say?

The next time I was there was for A Very Merry Harold & Kumar 3D Christmas. Outside the Chinese theater are the legendary cement footprints of people like Judy Garland and Cary Grant. There are also less-well-remembered names, and so over the decades some of them have been removed and replaced with newer stars like Tom Cruise. Those cement slabs live inside movable metal plates that are sunk into the sidewalk. This makes walking a bit of a situation. You need to watch your step. After taking off the 3D glasses, I walked outside and, in view of not just friends but also many strangers who pretended it didn't happen, I tripped and face-planted 90 degrees into the ground like a cartoon. My pants were torn and my knees scraped. I got up and kept walking but gave a passing thought to just staying put and sobbing.

I did not attend the premire of the Juliette Binoche-and-Johnny Depp-starring Chocolat. But Alonso did, and he brought home a lot of free Godiva. That was wonderful.