The Minecraft movie is making bank. That part’s not surprising. It’s the kind of IP that practically guarantees success—globally beloved, endlessly memeable, and generational in its appeal. But instead of people talking about the movie itself, the conversation online has been hijacked by TikTok chaos: the Chicken Jockey trend.
If you’re not familiar with Minecraft lore, a “chicken jockey” is a rare in-game occurrence—a baby zombie riding a chicken, with about a 0.25% chance of spawning. And thanks to TikTok, that oddball piece of trivia has now become a full-blown excuse for teens to show up to screenings, shout it out during the film, film their chaos, and throw popcorn in the air like it’s a confetti cannon. It’s not about the movie. It’s about the moment. And to hear director Jared Hess tell it, this whole thing is hilarious. “So bananas,” he called it. “Way too fun.” He even laughed about the fact that police had to be called to theaters over the mess.
That’s easy to say when you’re not the one cleaning it up.
I spent over a decade working in theaters—drive-ins, multiplexes, chains in LA and beyond. I’ve seen people sneak in by hiding in the trunks of cars. I’ve watched parents get drunk before the movie started and nearly start brawls in front of their kids. I’ve cleaned up used condoms, found people mid-hookup in the back row, and yes, even scrubbed literal shit off walls. There is a level of human indecency that creeps into theaters more than people want to admit. And while a lot of it is grotesque, what sticks with me most isn’t the mess—it’s the attitude. It’s how little people care about the space or the people working in it.
Theaters are treated like garbage dumps by the very people begging for them to survive. And now, with TikTok trends pushing crowds into chaos, and directors cheering it on from afar, we’ve crossed into something worse: willful, meme-powered disrespect. And nobody in power seems to care.
It reminds me of the GentleMinions stunt from 2022 and 2024, when teens in suits started showing up to Rise of Gru and Despicable Me 4 screenings. It was weird, sure, but mostly harmless. The worst that happened was a few rowdy showings and some confused ushers. That trend was a meme that nodded to the movie—it was about playful irony. But this? This Chicken Jockey stuff? It’s performance for performance’s sake. It’s about turning a theater into a stage and an audience into unwilling extras.
And what really burns is how theaters are being asked to just put up with it. Because attendance is still recovering. Because the pandemic kneecapped exhibition. Because people now expect to stream everything. Because, bottom line, studios and execs are desperate to fill seats and keep the lights on. But you don’t build long-term loyalty by embracing viral chaos. You don’t revive the magic of the movies by turning the experience into a playground for content-hungry teenagers. You do it by reminding people that theaters are sacred. Not fancy. Not elite. Just sacred. Places where people come to share a story in the dark. Not dodge a flying Coke.
And yet here we are, again, with the same old logic: “At least people are going to the movies.” Yeah. But at what cost? Who’s cleaning the floors after? Who’s scraping popcorn out of the projectors? Who’s getting cussed out for asking a kid to put away their phone? Hint: it’s not Jared Hess. It’s the 17-year-old making minimum wage on a Friday night. It’s the shift manager who now has to walk around with a radio clipped to their belt like they’re mall security. It’s the people on the ground, holding together an experience that used to mean something.
And when a director, a guy whose name is on the poster, laughs and calls it “bananas”? That’s not funny. That’s spitting in the face of the people propping up your success. It’s not harmless when a hundred TikTokers treat your movie like a joke—it’s exhausting for the staff who are expected to turn chaos into customer service. We’re not props. We’re not stagehands in your viral stunt. We’re people. And we’re tired.
I love movies. I’ve given thousands of hours of my life to this industry. I’ve watched magic unfold on screen and in the audience. But none of it feels worth it when the loudest people in the room are the ones filming their tantrums for likes, and the people with the power to call it out are too busy laughing to notice the damage.
So yeah, the Minecraft movie made money. Congrats. But if this is the kind of moviegoing experience we’re selling now—where art comes second to antics, and respect is the punchline—I’m not sure the industry’s winning anything at all.
Hollywood After Dark 