Seriously. What a dork.
Anyways, my movie of choice was Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris. I procured a small popcorn and a diet soda. I put my feet up on the chair in front of me. I stole furtive glances at the other people in the audience and made up stories of how each of them had orchestrated their lives to be present in the theatre. Then the lights went way, way down and I slunk (is that a word?) way, way down into my chair.
I was easily charmed by the time travel element in the film, while being simultaneously annoyed that Rachel McAdams' character was of one dimension: the bitch dimension. I was fascinated not only by the ethereal beauty of Marion Cotillard, but by the singular nose of Owen Wilson. I thought casting Kathy Bates as Gertrude Stein was an inspired choice. I thought the whole thing was so clever and fun, even though I will forever be squeebed (is that a word?) out by Woody Allen.
Afterwards, I admit to a twinge of regret at not having someone to eat and chat with post-movie. But I went ahead and took myself to lunch, and for entertainment I eavesdropped on a couple of men, advanced in age, discussing a business idea that I did not understand and that I nevertheless felt sure would never materialize. One of the men was a conversation hog, I noted. His companion's plate was clean, while his remained full.
Maybe I will see a photograph of these two men one day, accompanied by an article that describes them as "famed venture capitalists," or "Silicon Valley kingmakers." And I will remember that they were the two men I saw that one summer when I went to see a movie all by myself.