The scene continues. In the movie, dollar bills are being waved around, one-liners thrown about. The usual ritual. And here in the theater sits this guy, mimicking it all. As if he were part of it. As if he could somehow intervene in what's happening on screen. There's something tragic about it, almost touching. Like children who think they can catch the moon just because they stretch their arms toward it.
Who's your daddy?
In my job as a photographer, I experience similar moments. The supposed power of the lens. Yet it's always the people in front of the camera who decide what they give you. Sometimes I think it's like love: the more desperately you try to control it, the more it slips away from you.
The guy two rows ahead has gone quiet now. Maybe he realized himself how ridiculous it all is. This peculiar male fantasy of dominance and control. Or maybe he's just tired from shouting.
Later, outside the cinema, I hear him standing with his buddies under the awning, laughing too loudly at some joke. I look up at the dark sky and think about how often we deceive ourselves. About power. About control. About all the little lies we tell ourselves.
He probably doesn't know the answer to his question himself. And that's perhaps the saddest part of the whole story.