When my out-of-state visitors go to the movies here, they often comment on the locals’ habit of sitting all the way through the final credits before getting up to leave. In L.A., a movie isn’t over at the fadeout; we want to see who was the best boy, who stood in for Julia Roberts and who got the catering gig. For Angelenos, the movie isn’t over until the Dolby Sound System logo has appeared, and the house lights have come on.

I used to believe L.A. movie crowds watch the credits with as much interest as the story action because they want to see how many people they know making below-the-line appearances. To recognize names, to claim relationships, is a gauge of professional status in an industry town; it’s a competition as much as a curiosity satisfier.

I’m sure that’s true for some people, but I’m equally sure that’s not the only reason people everywhere linger in the dark while the credits roll.

Take "Atonement," a film with a complicated story that packs a breathtaking emotional punch. Almost from the beginning, the audience is obliged to pay careful attention to the narrative only to be whipsawed into an acutely powerful parallel reality when what we hear, what we see, isn’t really what happened, forcing us to experience both extremes of the human passion that informs each version.

So when the final scene unfolds, and we’re awash in the wrenching what-iffery of possibility lost, we need those few minutes of darkness to recover, to ruminate, to collect all the little pieces of ourselves strewn over a two-hour trail of tears and outrage. Sure, it’s about reading the credits for that kid’s name again, the actress whose black magical reality sets the story in motion; it’s about learning the name of the gorgeous English estate where the story was filmed; it’s about confirming that no animals were injured in the filming of the war scenes. And when I saw it, it was also about reclaiming equilibrium.

Which is why an audible gasp arose from the audience when, moments after director Joe Wright’s name popped up at the fade to black, the house lights blasted on in full illumination. We all squinted into the unwelcome brilliance, jaws collectively dropped, gob-smacked. We felt violated, cheated. This movie might be over but our feelings were not resolved, and it was going to take the privacy and safety of darkness to revisit them, and reject or accept them. This takes a few minutes, and that’s how you know a movie is really good.

Watching the final credits isn’t always about information, about Angelenos reinforcing our insider status. Sometimes it’s about processing what you’ve seen and felt. Never again will I make fun of moviegoers who remain seated until the ushers throw them out. Unless, of course, they’re watching another sequel to "Jackass."