Pictures Made Of Light.

Contributed by Andrew Cheverton on 25/09/08

It is a dark street, lit only by the rising moon and the windows of the picture house, rendering the street in shades of grey from spotlight white to cellar black. The scant crowd can add no colour, as they move along in sombre suits and dresses, any bright shade bleached to monochrome in the harsh gloom. A sheen of mist lays over it all, like over-exposure.

On the corner, downlit by the streetlamp against which he leans, and silhouetted against the picture house glow, he stands. He has waited for twenty minutes, and would wait twenty minutes more, but that this is a film he dares not miss. He checks his watch again and again, then reasons that, as he himself had not arrived on time, perhaps she has already gone inside. It is late and dark outside, after all, and there is a freezing mist coming in.

The façade of the old building is covered in a plain, off-white plaster, run through with hairline cracks and crumbling in places like the overlaid pancake make-up of an aging Hollywood star. It has a fading plushness, and is redolent of renovation and quiet desperation. It is an old bear among young cubs, and it fights for what it can.

It is barely warm inside, and the patrons keep coats and jackets on, although the men remove their hats. The view here turns to blood from coloured lights, yet it seems as if the red velvet of the seats and the curtains somehow leeches from the surface and carries on the air. It is fiery, and gives the illusion of warmth where there is none.

When everyone is seated, when everyone is silent, the curtains move aside in jerked motions, their tracking sound like a train, far away.

The red lights fade and the screen is lit, its chiaroscuro flicker casting shadows on the crowd. The man tries to check his watch in the last glimmer, but it is gone, and he sits in the picture house alone. He is annoyed, perhaps only at himself, and it is some time before he pays attention to the film.

On screen, a family at a table eats dinner and talks amongst themselves. The audience chuckles at a line, but the man, distracted, has missed it. He puts her from his mind, and gazes at the projected image.

“If John doesn’t come down,” the lady on the screen says, “he won’t get any supper.”

“More for us, then,” replies a boy.

“Now, Peter, that’s not manners,” the woman, his mother, replies.

Peter apologises and looks down at his plate until talk resumes. His father fills a glass with dark wine, almost to the brim. He watches it swirl gently, and waits for it to level.

“Is there anything for dessert?” he asks eventually, still watching his wineglass.

“Anything?”

“Yes. Anything.” He does not take his eyes from the wine, traces a fingertip around the lip of the glass. “Anything at all.”

The man in the audience hears some noise behind him, to the rear of the picture house. Several patrons tut and whisper. He leans around in his seat to see if it is his companion, arrived late, but he comes face to face with a large woman in the seat behind, and she stares at him until he is compelled to turn back around and face front again.

John has come down to dinner, but he stands in the doorway and watches his parents and younger brother at the table.

“Are you going to stand there all evening,” his father asks, “or will you join us?”

“Well, I’m not going to stand here all evening,” John says. He leans to one side, letting the door jamb hold him up. He pushes both hands into his trouser pockets and lolls his head.

“Either come to the table, or not.”

“Please, John, sit,” his mother tries. “There’s plenty here and you must be hungry.”

“I was hungry earlier.”

“Then sit, join us.”

John watches his little brother avoid his eye. Peter picks at his food, trying studiously to not make any noise with his cutlery. The silence grows.

“Peter,” his father says, “please go on up to your room. Someone will bring a plate up to you later.”

Peter looks at his mother, who is absently adjusting a napkin to the side of her plate, then he quietly gets down from his place and walks to the door. John makes no attempt to acknowledge him, and Peter has to squeeze past him in the doorway.

John’s mother places her hands in her lap, as his father downs a mouthful of wine.

“Is there any dessert?” John asks, and a light comes on in a room upstairs, its faint glow cascading down through the slats of the banister. His mother touches her cheek with a finger; it is a small motion, that no one, at times like these, ever notices her make. She stands abruptly and runs from the room, knocking lightly into John as she does so. The ensuing silence barely conceals her as she moves, distraught, away.

The father turns his gaze onto his son, and his lips turn white as he presses his mouth in a cruel line. Before he can speak, John flicks the light switch and the room falls into darkness. Silhouetted in the doorway, John stands straight, and he pulls the door closed behind him.

His father sits at the table with his fury. It is fully dark, with only the tiniest glints of light, small diamonds that reflect from glassware and cutlery. Small sounds, as occasionally his wine glass clinks against his plate.

But for that, the room is silent.