I arrive at the New Zealand premiere of the Hannah Montana concert movie in an old hoodie and jandals, only to find it a more important event than I had anticipated. In fact, for the excited pre-teen girls running past me, it’s the event of the year. A red carpet has been laid out, complete with mock paparazzi and adoring fans. Every person walking down the carpet (all of them non-celebrities, with the exception of A-listers Jude Dobson, Sally Ridge, Grant Daulton and myself) has to endure (or enjoy, depending on their age) a barrage of unbridled enthusiastic screams from these ‘fans’.
A gift bag full of facial cleansers and more is placed in my hands as I hurry past a line of girls getting blonde wigs fitted to look just like their hero, Miss Montana. About then a sneaking suspicion hits me – I’m not part of the target demographic. I’m embarrassed: what’s a self-respecting male in his mid-20s doing sitting amongst pre-teen girls and their mums, clutching a container of Clean and Clear?
The lights go down. The audience screams. I pop on the 3D glasses and hold my breath as the assault on my senses begins. Hannah Montana bursts from the screen in sharp relief, belting out song after song in a high-pitched sugar rush. I need some air but struggle to locate the theatre’s main entrance in the dark. I’m stuck here, and the psychosis doesn’t let up. Panic. Thoughts of irrational doom. Think about calling my mum.
The young audience members around me, however, are loving it. They can’t get enough. Cries of “Wow!” occur anytime the 3D effect places an object closer to the audience (Technology geeks might be interested to know that ‘Disney Digital 3D’ has a slight flickering effect). Cries of “Yes!” resound whenever the first chords of a recognizable song issue forth. The audience in the theatre actually applauds along with the audience in the film.
My mind wanders. I find myself wondering if the 2D behind-the-scenes interludes are just poorly done 3D. They are not very interesting but at least give my ears a break. I wonder what Miley Cyrus makes of all this. She certainly has confidence: “Who’s the biggest Hannah Montana fan here tonight?” she asks her audience, without a trace of modesty. Likewise, the Jonas Brothers (“Oh my gosh, the Jonas Brothers!” exclaims a little voice three rows behind me) are consummate professionals, leaping around the stage and yelling things like: “This song is for all the ladies out there.”
It all comes to an abrupt end and I slink out past girls still singing the songs. I feel like I’ve just been at a Hillary Clinton convention – a scary woman has just been breathing hot air at me for over an hour; I don’t understand the fuss, but there’s no denying the slick power she commands. For adults, this is as foreign as life on Mars. But girls under twelve will have their minds blown into smithereens.
