I Went to a Drive-In Theater to Feel Normal. The Opposite Happened.

By the time I purchase my ticket, I’m on high alert. I hesitate when an employee offers me a pen to sign the receipt. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I sanitized it.” Then she smiles—or, rather, her eyes crinkle above her mask. I crinkle back.

Drive-in theaters, emblems of a bygone era of Americana, have enjoyed a renaissance amid the shutdowns. Compared with other recreational facilities that are reopening across the country, they’re low-risk in terms of social distancing: The guests stay outdoors, near or inside their cars. Members of different households have little to no chance of coming into contact—no one is clambering over other viewers’ legs to reach seats, or rubbing elbows with strangers for hours in an enclosed space. I expected to find a haven, a sanctuary of old-fashioned normalcy; instead, my getaway only exacerbated my modern anxieties.

When Los Angeles County finally allowed its drive-in theaters to reopen—weeks after neighboring counties and other states did—the Paramount sprung into action. Darren Kurkowski, the vice president of operations at Bianchi Theatres, which owns the drive-in, told me it had been “incredibly tough” to watch competitors reap the rewards of pandemic-induced patronage while the Paramount sat idly. So when the green light finally arrived, the theater mobilized its staff, reopening its two screens just three days after the order’s announcement. “We prepared for the worst,” Kurkowski said, “and hoped for the best.”

So did I. Early last week, California saw its largest spike in coronavirus cases since the outbreak began, so I overprepare to go to the theater, bringing with me gloves, hand sanitizer, and snacks. But as much I try to relax, alarm bells erupt in my head during every possible interaction. I consider grabbing popcorn, but when I see that the line has stretched into the lot for the adjacent screen, I scurry back to my car—it feels like too many people, even if everyone’s socially distanced. Before heading to the restroom, I wait for the man standing by the car next to mine to finish tugging a mask over his son’s face. We’re far enough apart, but I don’t want to make a mistake. I’m not the only one acting oddly: In the restroom, where employees had used caution tape to mark off every other stall, a woman ducks inside hers when she spots me exiting mine at the same time, and heads for the row of sinks only after I walk past. A whiff of surreality even permeates the previews: Every trailer that plays still touts the film’s original release date. Black Widow, out in theaters May 2020!

The film itself alleviates some of this anxiety. Of the four films offered, I chose Trolls World Tour, the family-friendly, already released jukebox musical about tribes of the titular hairy dolls fighting to save music. Its eager sincerity, buoyant tone, and entertaining escapism wind up being an excellent distraction. The children in the audience certainly have no trouble enjoying the show: As the sky dims, fireworks—a staple of Los Angeles in the weeks leading up to July 4—explode in the distance, and the kids cheer them on. A group of masked boys on scooters and bikes ride around the lot, before an employee urges their adult chaperone to take them back to their car. Throughout the night, I hear giggling—and at one point, I catch myself laughing along as well, to an inexplicably deep-voiced baby troll played by Kenan Thompson. As it turns out, the Paramount sold out both screens that first night. “[People] didn’t care what we were showing,” Kurkowski said. “They were just so excited to be out.”