One of my earliest memories of watching films has less to do with the film itself and more with the anticipation of the moment when the film was to begin: when the red velvet curtains rose inch by inch and disappeared into some mysterious space above the screen; the moment when the lights dimmed and people hurried to their seats by the light of the usher's torch; when the projector began its whirr and threw a beam of mote-filled light over our heads. It was a magical anticipation, as dream-like and associative as cinema itself.
The theatres were large but the audience felt close, as if we knew each other even though we'd never met, as if we could make assumptions about each other like friends can, all because we shared for the duration of the film the womb that was the theatre.