One film a week. Seven nights. Twenty chairs, one of them yours.No trailers, no adverts, no choice. The lights go down at half past seven, and after the credits they stay down for a minute, which is the part people come back for.
Book a seatFour rows of five. Every seat sees the whole screen. When the twentieth goes, the night is sold out, and it stays that way; we don't add chairs, and we don't stand at the back.
The lights don't come up when the film ends. They come up sixty seconds later. Nobody talks. Nobody checks a phone; there's nothing to see by. It's the only rule people ever thank us for.
A farm, a summer, two brothers and a fence. Ninety-six minutes, on a print we borrowed from an archive that made us promise to keep the room below twenty-two degrees. We have.
Pick a night. Twenty seats each. When they're gone we'll say so, and there's a returns list that moves on the night, from seven, at the door.
Book a seat