Several years ago, Joy and I joined family members for a night at the movies. The attraction was the latest installment in the Star Wars franchise.

The movie itself was enjoyable enough.

As I recall, it featured brave heroes, evil villains, spectacular special effects, dramatic escapes, and enough nostalgia to keep longtime fans happy. In other words, it was very much a Star Wars movie.

But oddly enough, the movie isn’t what I remember most clearly.

What I remember is the twenty minutes before the movie began.

Now, I understand previews. In fact, I enjoy them. A good preview can persuade me to return another day and spend even more money on another evening’s entertainment.

I understand the reminders to silence cell phones. I understand the encouragement to visit the concession stand for popcorn that appears to have been priced by weight against gold bullion.

Those things are part of the movie-going experience.

What caught my attention that evening was something different.

Commercials.

Not previews.

Not theatre announcements.

Commercials.

There I sat, having already paid for admission. Between tickets and snacks, four of us had invested something approaching ninety dollars in the evening. Yet before the feature presentation could begin, we were treated to advertisements for automobiles, telecommunications companies, vacation destinations, and assorted products that apparently could not survive without my immediate attention.

As I sat there waiting for the movie to begin, I found myself thinking about the old science-fiction film The Running Man. In the movie, entertainment, advertising, and consumerism had become so intertwined that it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. What had seemed a wildly exaggerated future when I first saw the film suddenly felt a little less far-fetched. Here I was, having paid for admission, sitting in a captive audience while advertisers took their turn on centre stage.

It struck me as an odd arrangement.

I had paid for the privilege of watching advertisements.

Somewhere along the way, advertisers had discovered a remarkable business model. Not only could they sell products to me, they could convince me to pay an admission fee before showing me the commercials.

That is a level of marketing brilliance I can only admire from a distance.

As I sat there waiting for the movie to begin, I found myself wondering where it would end.

Television had commercials.

Radio had commercials.

The internet was becoming increasingly crowded with commercials.

DVDs had begun inserting commercials before the movie.

What next?

Books?

At the time, I comforted myself with the thought that books remained a safe haven.

No flashing banners.

No pop-up windows.

No advertisements interrupting Chapter Three to recommend a slightly newer version of the protagonist.

Books were still books.

Or so I thought.

Years later, I am no longer quite so certain.

Today advertisements follow us through our phones, our computers, our social media feeds, our streaming services, and even our online shopping carts. Sometimes I suspect my devices know what I am considering purchasing before I do.

The advertisers seem tireless.

Yet there remains one place where they still struggle to compete.

A good story.

Whether found in a movie, a conversation, or the pages of a well-loved book, a good story captures our attention not because it wants something from us, but because it has something to give us.

Perhaps that is why I still return to books.

At least the characters rarely try to sell me a Lexus.

GRB