<i> PARLEZ</i> -<i> VOUS </i> CINEPLEX?

How do you impress a professor of computer sciences from the Sorbonne in Paris with the technological achievements of American cinema? I decided to take him to the latest multiple-screen, multiple-sound, multiple-popcorn theater and let him view the latest in multiple high-tech mayhem: “RoboCop,” about a policeman who is half-robot, half-Rambo.

Quel mistake.

Jean was our house guest. He is quite young for a professor and very much of the With-It Generation. He looked down at my old IBM-clone word processor and inquired if it ran on kerosene. But he did admit that there was nowhere in Paris where 18 theaters were clustered together under a single roof.

“For what reason do Americans do this?” he inquired.

Since I wasn’t able to think of a sensible answer, I decided to let him see this latest American marvel for himself, the new Cineplex Odeon complex at Universal City, where they used to make movies before they found out it was more profitable to pretend to make them and charge tourists for the privilege of watching them not being made.

Because Jean is a scientist, he was anxious to view “RoboCop,” whom he had heard was the illegitimate offspring of Frankenstein’s coupling with the Bionic Woman. Even in France, this would be considered an unusual menage .

We drove up the hill to Universal City, past the skyscrapers that have sprouted out of the back-lot where cowboys and Indians chased each other in front of the hand-cranked cameras of Uncle Carl Laemmle. Today, it is a bewildering metropolis of Chinese restaurants, hot dog stands, luxury hotels, tourists from Omaha and 18--count ‘em, 18--theaters in constant turmoil.

The mob scene trying to drive into the parking lot impressed Jean with the fervor of American cinema fans, until we discovered there was a rock concert going on at the Universal Amphitheatre at the same time. There is only one--count ‘em, one--amphitheater, so we eventually did reach the entrance. We paid our $3.50 and were encouraged to find a parking space for our car, which entailed a journey that Jean equated with the distance from Paris to the Riviera, although not quite as scenic.

Exiting from the parking structure, whose exterior resembles either a Moorish castle or Pola Negri’s boudoir, we were faced with another mob of teen-agers besieging the long line of cashiers’ windows that stretched for what seemed a city block (so there will be a minimum of delay in securing your cash).

Each cashier--rather, cashierette--sold tickets for all of the 18 theaters. Some of the films were playing in more than one theater. All were starting at different times.

There was no way to figure out the bulletin board on which this information was posted, so I merely stood in line until I reached a cashierette and told her I wanted tickets to see “RoboCop.”

“Which theater?” she asked. “It’s playing in three.”

I told her I didn’t care.

She punched buttons, took my money, gave me tickets, then paid me $3.50.

“What’s that for?”

“You get your parking money back when you buy a ticket.”

“Then why bother charging for parking? Why don’t you just stamp the parking ticket?”

She looked at me as if I were a disease.

I led Jean to the huge entrance to what appeared, to him, to be the Palace of Versailles done in neon. It was the main entrance to the 18--count ‘em, 18--theaters. But there were only two ticket takers, in what looked like military uniforms.

One stared at our tickets.

“ ‘RoboCop’ is in Theater 12,” he told me.

“OK. Where is Theater 12?”

“Over there, someplace,” he said, waving toward Ojai, “but you can’t go in.”

“Why not?”

“The picture’s already started.”

“We don’t care,” I told him. “My friend has traveled all the way from Paris to see ‘RoboCop,’ and he doesn’t care if he comes in in the middle.”

The ticket taker shook his head.

“You can’t do that,” he insisted, firmly. “The picture has started.”

“Are there still seats available?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Then we’ll go in.”

“You can’t do that,” he said. “All the ushers have moved to Theater 13.”

“We don’t need ushers,” I insisted. “We’re willing to rough it.”

“You can’t do that,” he repeated sternly, even his epaulets looking ruffled. “It’s against regulations. We only have a few ushers, we have to move ‘em around fast. We can’t allow anyone in late.”

It dawned on me how they can make 18--count ‘em, 18--theaters profitable. They have a total of four--count ‘em, four--ushers. They are picked on their ability to run the hundred meters in 10.2 seconds. Thus they are able to service the upstairs theaters too.

“OK,” I said, resignedly. “How long until ‘RoboCop’ starts again?”

The ticket taker consulted his racing form.

“An hour and a half,” he told us.

“OK,” I said, “we’ll wait.”

“You can’t do that,” he said.

“Why not?”

“The line doesn’t form for 45 minutes. We don’t have enough ushers for the line either.”

“OK,” I said, “do you have any movie starting right now?”

He looked startled.

“You don’t care what picture you see?”

“My friend has traveled all the way from Paris,” I explained patiently. “He would like to sit down.”

This didn’t please the ticket taker one bit.

Grudgingly, he acknowledged that “Maid to Order,” in Theater 7, was starting in 15 minutes.

“Fine,” I said, “we’ll go to Theater 7.”

“You can’t do that. You have tickets for Theater 12. You can’t get into Theater 7 with them.”

“But, you have 18 theaters here, and all the tickets are the same price, so what difference does it make?”

“It’s a tradition.”

Jean and I plodded back out of the Palace of Versailles and I approached one of the cashierettes and handed her my tickets.

“What are you giving me these for?”

“These are for ‘RoboCop.’ I’d like to exchange these tickets for the show in Theater 7 that starts in 15 minutes.”

“You can’t do that,” she said.

“Why not?”

“You have to take them back to the cashier you bought them from. Rules.”

We stared at the long line of cashiers’ booths, operated by young ladies in their teens with identical hairdoes, identical earrings and identical blouses.

Jean thought that the one we bought the tickets from had a large bosom. I insisted that he was used to French women, all of whom have small bosoms, and that our cashierette had kind of a medium bosom, by American standards. On a scale of 1 to 10, about a 5. We checked the bosom situation out carefully and decided we had bought the tickets from Cashierette No. 3.

“I’d like to exchange these tickets for ‘RoboCop’ that I bought from you for tickets for ‘Maid to Order,’ ” I informed her.

She stared at me, hurt. “You won’t like it,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“If you wanted to see ‘RoboCop,’ you’ll hate ‘Maid to Order.’ Nobody gets killed in the whole picture.”

“But if we want to see ‘RoboCop,’ we have to wait an hour and a half!”

“You could eat popcorn,” she decided.

“ ‘Maid to Order’ goes on in only 15 minutes!”

“Three,” she said, “so you’ll probably miss it. They won’t let you in after it’s started.”

I looked at my watch. Jean and I had wasted 12 minutes estimating bosoms.

“Just exchange my tickets!” I shouted, with all the diplomacy of John McEnroe debating a line call.

“Do you realize what I have to do to exchange these tickets?” Miss Medium Bosom inquired. “I have to fill out all these damn forms.”

“Fill out the damn forms!” I told her.

That impressed her. She scribbled something on some forms and gave us new tickets. Jean kissed her hand, I bowed and we raced for Theater 7, getting there just before they pulled up the drawbridge.

We sat in the front row to see “Maid to Order.” The faces on the screen looked so large, Jean said he could have driven a Renault through Ally Sheedy’s teeth. The sound was so loud it drowned out the rock concert next door.

We liked the picture.