Your opinion is not influenced by anyone when you're alone at a

Host: The matinee theater was almost empty, a hollow cathedral of flickering light. The screen’s glow washed over rows of velvet seats, most of them unoccupied, their fabric worn and faded from years of daylight solitude. The air smelled faintly of butter and old carpets, a kind of nostalgia that never left.

Outside, the city afternoon was still bright, but in here, time folded. The projector hummed, a steady heartbeat in the silence.

In the third row, Jack sat with his arms crossed, a bucket of popcorn resting untouched beside him. Two seats over, Jeeny leaned back, her eyes fixed on the screen, her face pale in the light. The film was halfway through, but neither of them was really watching anymore.

The movie’s dialogue echoed faintly, a line about loneliness, a close-up of hands parting, and then darkness again.

Jeeny turned slightly, her voice soft, almost as if she were talking to the flicker itself.
“Alison Brie once said, ‘Your opinion is not influenced by anyone when you're alone at a matinee. It's just you and the movie.’”

Host: The words hung in the dim light, hovering between reel and reality, like smoke caught in a sunbeam.

Jack shifted, eyes narrowing. “That’s the illusion, isn’t it? That we’re ever really alone with a movie. There’s a director, actors, writers, music — all those voices whispering what they want you to feel. Even when you think it’s just you, it’s them inside your head.”

Jeeny: “But you’re not debating anymore. You’re listening. There’s no crowd, no reviews, no laughter track. Just you and the story. That’s as close to honesty as art ever gets.”

Jack: “Honesty? Or manipulation without witnesses?”

Jeeny: “You call it manipulation, I call it immersion. When you’re alone, the movie becomes your reflection. It’s not about what they’re telling you — it’s about what you’re ready to hear.”

Host: A beam of light from the projector cut through the dust, landing on their faces, turning them into ghosts inside someone else’s dream.

Jack: “You really think you’re free from influence in there? Come on, Jeeny. The whole thing’s engineered — the angle, the color, the music swelling right when you’re about to cry. It’s psychology, not purity.”

Jeeny: “But your reaction isn’t programmed, Jack. That’s what she meant — your opinion in that dark theater is yours alone. It’s not filtered by what others say you should think.”

Jack: “Until you walk out and check Rotten Tomatoes.”

Jeeny laughed quietly, the sound soft, sincere. “Sure. But in that moment, before the outside world rushes back in, there’s a kind of truth. It’s rare now — to feel without an audience.”

Host: The film’s light flashed across the room, a montage of faces, cities, and tears. Somewhere in that sequence, the fiction blurred into memory, and both of them seemed to recognize something intimate — not in the story, but in each other’s silence.

Jack: “You know, I once used to go to matinees just to escape work. Didn’t even care what was playing. But there was this one time — The Elephant Man — I remember I sat through the credits, couldn’t move. Not because it was perfect. Because no one was there to approve of what I felt. It was just... me.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what she meant. The absence of others becomes a mirror. You don’t perform your reaction. You inhabit it.”

Host: A soft whirring from the projector filled the room. The screen flickered white, then shifted to another scene — a field, wind blowing, leaves trembling. The light bathed them both in that artificial daylight, as if the film itself had pulled them inside.

Jack: “Still, I don’t buy this purity myth. You can’t ever really be unbiased. Even alone, you’re haunted by what you’ve learned, what you’ve lost. Every movie is just a trigger for your own ghosts.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the point. The movie doesn’t need to be pure — just honest enough to let your ghosts speak. That’s why people cry in dark theaters. They’re grieving, but they don’t even know for whom.”

Jack: “You make it sound spiritual.”

Jeeny: “It is. Cinema is the modern confessional. Only there, you don’t need to say anything — the light does it for you.”

Host: The film’s music swelled, a violin note holding, aching, like a voice that never learned to rest. Their faces, now motionless, seemed carved by that sound.

Jack: “You ever notice how different a film feels when you watch it alone? You catch things — a gesture, a look, a shadow — that you’d miss if someone were beside you, whispering their interpretations. I guess that’s what she meant. It’s not just you and the movie — it’s you and your mind, finally unfiltered.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because we’re not taught how to be alone with our reactions anymore. Everything’s shared, posted, commented. But in a matinee, no one’s looking. You can love something deeply, and no one can mock it out of you.”

Host: The camera would zoom slowly, the frame catching the light flicker across their eyes, the reflection of the screen painting them in movement — faces illuminated by something transient, private, real.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? Maybe that’s why people fall in love at the movies. They think it’s with the person next to them, but it’s really with the self they become in the dark.”

Jeeny: “Because in the dark, no one’s watching — and for once, you can be authentic. Maybe that’s what cinema was always for. Not to entertain, but to let us practice honesty.”

Jack: “Honesty. I like that. Maybe that’s what truth looks like in the twenty-first century — a screen’s reflection on your face, no applause, no validation, just... feeling.”

Jeeny: “Just you and the movie.”

Host: The credits rolled, the music fading, names scrolling upward into nothing. Neither of them moved. The theater lights slowly brightened, breaking the spell, but not the quiet.

Outside, the city still hummed — horns, sirens, life — but inside, the silence held like a sacred space.

Jack stood, finally, his voice low, almost tender. “Funny. Out there, everyone’s got an opinion. In here, it’s just… mine.”

Jeeny smiled, her eyes reflecting the last traces of light from the screen. “Then keep it that way, Jack. For once, let the feeling belong to no one else.”

Host: The camera pans out — two figures, small, framed against the wide silver glow of the screen. The projector hums one last time, then clicks off.

A soft dust cloud rises, swirling in the beam of the exit light, like memory taking shape.

And as the theater door opens, the outside daylight floods in, blinding, ordinary, real —
but for one brief second, the world beyond the film looks a little more like the truth they’d just seen inside.