Little Sleep Cinema

Tonight, I joined Johannes and Clara to attend a screening of the Uppsala International Short Film Festival. The block was presented in the oldest cinema of our city, Slottsbiografen. Inaugurated in 1914, restored in ´94, with beautiful wooden panels, paintings and ... comfortable seats. Yes, you know where this is going.

The first feature was an animation by the Canadian Cordell Barker about a train chasing down an unsuspecting cow, naturally in an amusing presentation. Plenty of sounds and moving elements to appeal and excite the primitive parts of the brain.
The difficulties started by the second short, which dealt with a man finding himself marooned in an arctic circumstance following an accident of some sort. His head injury and/or hypothermia provoked strange illusions (not in me, in the film), until he lies down and succumbs. At least, that's what I think happened. A few nods, but I was still in the game.

The next topic to be projected on the silver screen was the Skype-conference between a Romanian man and his son in the U.S., and their joy of the son´s wedding. Not inexplicably, my brain decided it was sleep time.

It is always a bit embarrassing when the nod-offs become more than a subtle twitch. It must be obvious to the person sitting behind you that you're not exactly taking in every cinematic facet of the film. If this should occur, it can be remedied by a quick and clear reaction to something going on in the scene. Grabbing your chin in a thoughtful way can work, or joining in on a laugh that you don't know the reason of. But most likely, the person behind will see through this and value your respect for the flick even lower. So be it, you will have done what you could.

My attention had returned by the time a guest was presented to the audience. It was a collaborator on the "Romanian Skype-conference" thing, and was now accepting our questions. I was about to raise my hand and ask how the short had ended, but refrained.

By that time and for the remainder of the screening, my perception was as acute as an eagle's, and I could follow the programme in detail. It ended with "Poste Restante", a 14-minute-long tale about undeliverable mail. It was the story that touched me the most, and I sent the organizers an appreciative thought for saving the best for last.