The Boy Who Went to the Cinema, Alone.

The lights are still on when the boy comes into the theatre. Seconds pass and no friends follow him in. The cinema is only half-full but it's the back half; his eyes scan for a fleeting moment before he gives up and sidles into an empty row nearer the front. He's carrying a skateboard and a rucksack. He wriggles out of the latter and lets both fall to the ground as he takes his seat. The skateboard lands with a rather loud clunk; he looks round self-consciously. Behind him, rows of middle-aged women, mostly in pairs, some with men, but the boy is in the minority, in every sense. The lights grew dim. No friends still. The film starts; a film in English, subtitled, about the life of Margaret Thatcher. What attracted a teenage French boy to this ten-to-six séance, to this room part-filled with aging women? A political interest, perhaps. A little niche, but not entirely bizarre. Maybe he had nothing better to do. Wanted to go to the cinema, and this was what was on. But why was he alone?

Why shouldn't he be? What is it about the cinema that we feel is so social, anyway? We go in couples to kiss in the dark, or in herds, to graze on junk and hiss cynicisms through mouthfuls of salty corn. Hold hands between seats or brush fingers in the popcorn bucket. Whisper sweet nothings or bristle at annoying comments made by friends who won't keep quiet. We go together for nothing more than to distract ourselves from the films we've come to see, the films we've paid for. So that afterwards we can swap arbitrary commentaries for a few moments until we're back outside in the cold air, distracted into the usual babble of group conversation. Inanities and profanities.

Alone we lose nothing. We seek no hand to hold because our bodies may as well cease to exist, so lost we are in the pictures looming huge in front of us. No hushed asides needed; only quiet reflection is necessary. The film coaxes us in and envelops us, whole; we are Jonah in the belly of the cinematic whale. Our eyes stray not from the screen, and the film flows in, unbroken, unspoilt. Our reactions are purely our own, not engineered for the ears or eyes of others by our sides. No. We need not fiddle with the volume of our laughter for the satisfaction of our comrades. We need not hide our tears. What teenage boy would cry for the plight of Maggie T? Perhaps a lone French one, feet propped up on his skateboard. Surrounded by no one; hands holding nothing but themselves. Just him and empty seats, deep red faux-velvet, folded up against themselves in the absence of bodies.