It was a Sunday eve. A slight drizzle sprinkled the still, cold air. Civilians strolled around the Octagon. Armed with their e-tickets and pink uniforms, Barbie militia were beginning to mark their territory. Little did it know, Rialto Cinema was about to be shell-shocked. Critic sent our slayest field journalist to chronicle the advance of the pink army.
Walking into the trenches, the air buzzed hot with anticipation. Close to a hundred uniformed Barbie militia had stationed themselves in the foyer, clutching their large popcorn choc-top combos, ready for any sign of enemy activity (Oppenheimer viewers would soon be arriving for their screening in Cinema 2).
It really was no-man’s land. The only men seen were a few boyfriends being held hostage and some fathers seeking desperately to reconnect with their daughter’s inner child. As the numbers of valiant soldiers began to grow, a sense of resolute determination and frustrated impatience came over the crowd.
Finding myself in the midst of a swarming pink sea of Barbie’s acolytes, I realised I was in the trenches. Never did I think I would make it this far. My jumbo Coke Zero started to slip out of my hands as my palms began to sweat and my heart rate rose. The ticket marshall had taken up his station at the bottom of the stairs. Cinema 3 was only two flights away. The troops were alert and ready. This is what they had spent their entire life training for. All the blood, sweat and tears would not go to waste now.
Finally, the orders to mobilise began: “Ok, everyone, if we can please line up in an orderly fashion and allow me to scan your ticket,” said the ticket marshall. The velvet barricade was removed and bedlam ensued. The troops could not wait a second longer to execute their mission; springing up out of the trenches, armed with fanatic zeal, they made a run for it. Thundering up the stairs, anyone would think Oppenheimer was having a live-action screening next door. One of the cinema lieutenants attempted to control the swarms. “Oi, no running!” He bellowed in his patriarchal, mansplaining voice. But the pink paratroops had forgotten themselves. The adrenaline of being out of the trenches and into the field was overwhelming. The ticket marshall’s efforts were fruitless, and many, many tickets would have to go unscanned.
I was quickly swept up with the tide of militia. Hurling up the stairs, I held onto my comrades and made my ascent with bated breath. I thought about writing home in case I didn’t make it. In that moment, everything was put into perspective: how much had I risked in the name of honest journalism? Was I out of my depth? I tried to hide my fear behind a pair of giant pink eyeglasses.
Barbie World is not what it seems. It’s a warzone out there. But as soon as we entered the cinema itself, I knew I had made it out alive. An eerie sense of calm engulfed the atmosphere. The invasion campaign was over. Now it was time to numb the trauma with a pink-powered pronouncement of the problems with the patriarchy. Our valiance would not go unrewarded.