Imagine a cinema you would really want to go to.
Not iMax, not 3D, but something singular and truly special. What would it look like? Where would you find it? Something old and, quite possibly, crumbling. With forty shabby seats of red velvet that wouldn’t fold. With a small screen that only goes beyond B&W because it would be too fucking nuts not to go beyond B&W in 2015. With no popcorn and no drinks. With an old lady switching off the lights. With seven people in the audience. With no ads dragging for twenty, thirty minutes. With evening film shows that have no clue what ‘commercial success’ even means. Or critical, for that matter. And when you walk out, amazed and just a little confused, you are on the outskirts of your town, and you have no idea if the trams even go at this ungodly hour. And will you be able to get home? And what if it’s all true, everything you have just seen on the screen?
And then the most important question: what would you like to see there? In a cinema like that?
I think The Duke Of Burgundy, Peter Strickland’s new film, would be a great choice. And that’s the highest praise I can give. I did not even know erotic cinema could be this good. Too bad an old lady did not switch off the lights and then, later, I did not have to catch that last tram passing through the ghost town and taking me home.