At the Drive-In

In front of us, a July wind rippled the screen. Its blank canvas shimmered in the headlights of a handful of cars. Among the few already parked in the field were a pickup truck and a Rolls Royce so shiny I could see myself in it. In previous years we would have been inside, wearing sweatshirts brought along to combat the freezing AC, and there would have been an advertisement for concessions, a cartoon popcorn bag singing to a cheeky box of Raisinets. But this summer, we were told to bring our own food, stay in our vehicles, and wear a mask if we needed the porta potty.

Back when things were normal, I used to love sneaking off to the movies in the middle of the day. I told myself I was seeking artistic inspiration, but more often than not I was driven by a paradoxical desire: to be both alone and with a crowd. Sometimes just being in an audience was as important to me as the film that was showing. I sought out the cinema as a place where I could feel my own emotions without anyone watching, while knowing there would be no lack of human connection. I loved listening to the other moviegoers, their laughter, their tears, their gasps at the jump scare of a horror flick. I even delighted in the rowdier fans, the ones who would quip back to the characters on screen.

My boyfriend told me that one of his film professors always likened the cinema to church. Both are built around the ritual of families congregating together, sitting in some kind of dark and waiting to be shown the light. In quiet contemplation, the movies provide a safe space for the unconscious; despite viewing the same film, each audience member inevitably watches their own projection, filtered through the lens of their personal realities.