A few days ago I went to the cinema with some friends. I usually go on my own: I like to enjoy the film in private; also because, when there are more people -I mean family or friends invited by me, not strangers who happen to be there-, then somehow I feel responsible for their pleasure too. I should probably mention as well that I like to stay until the last credits have appeared and subsequently disappeared on the screen, and that I try to keep this habit every time I watch a movie; the exception to this rule being precisely the times I watch it with someone else. On this occasion, however, it was the other way around: it was me who had been invited by a couple of friends (a real couple, Diane and James); moreover, these friends work in the film industry (she is a director; he, a sound technician) and love cinema. Therefore, the usual discomfort of a known presence by my side, I thought, wouldn't be that strong. So I said yes.

We had arranged to meet at 8 pm at a Vietnamese restaurant close to the cinema; as usual, I was running late. Fortunately, the film started at 10 pm, so we still had plenty of time left. It wasn't yet summer in Barcelona (strictly speaking), but it felt like, so we wanted to order something refreshing. For a beginner, the menu of such a place might look a bit mysterious, but it turns out that our acquaintance (and subsequent friendship) was made during a trip to Vietnam, where we had the chance to discover a significant number of highly herbal and aromatic dishes; consequently, even though far from being experts, we didn't have much trouble making a choice. We ordered spring and fried rolls to share, and a cold dish of rice noodles with beef and vegetables for each one; as for the drinks, we had sparkling water and salted coffee, a specialty from Hue. The food was nice, but we found it quite expensive. Life in Barcelona has become unaffordable.

After dinner we went straight to the cinema. This is not a common cinema: it's one of the few that in 2025 still have a single theatre (one big screen); also, they rerun old classic movies on a weekly basis, and the seats are never numbered. This means that one has to be there in time to get a nice seat. We arrived twenty minutes before the opening, and there were only five people in the queue -depending on the film and the day of the week the queue turns the closest corner (at 60 metres) much before this time. So, yes, we had secured our priority seats, yet our satisfaction was partially spoiled by a sudden whim: we fancied an ice cream. It was decided that Diane would stay in the line and James and I would go and get them. We looked for ice cream shops nearby; strangely -it was nearly summer-, we found none open at that time. Thus we ended up buying chocolate and hazelnut industrial ice creams in a 24h supermarket. We went back to the line, ate our no-longer-so-desired dessert rapidly and felt immediately sadder than we had felt a moment before.

The cinema opened its doors, we showed our tickets and got in. We took our seats (in the second half and centred) and went to the toilet by turns. The theatre was gradually filling. Next to me sat a pair of women -they didn't seem to be a couple-; next to my friends sat a lonely man. Probably because the man was sitting on the other side I didn't notice anything nasty, but my friends told me afterwards that his breath stank. Five minutes of ads and movie trailers and the film we'd come to watch began.

The plot: a father is travelling with his son through the desert from rave party to rave party in search of his missing daughter -apparently they've got high chances to find her in such a place, or that's at least what they've heard from other people who may have seen her. I won't explain more about it since I don't want to do any spoiler; I'll say, nevertheless, that for me it was a sensorial experience. The blend of imagery and music gave me goosebumps more than once, and there was a scene in which I was on the verge of crying and laughing at the same time: in it one could see a lame and a cripple dancing in the empty and vast desert; dancing to the beat of the music, but also to the beat of their own heart; two unfinished creatures representing us all, because what are we, humans, if not precisely imperfect, limited and mortal beings; and yet how vital and lively it all felt, how painful and soothing all at once; and how the understandable and profound sorrow caused by the realisation of our own fragility and by the multiple and continuous vexations inflicted by our cruel and meaningless existence was mixed up with the pure joy of living.

Why is this world such a complex and incoherent place? Why are our emotions never transparent or crystalline? Sirat means "gate between hell and heaven" in Arabic. And it goes without saying that this way is always wafer-thin.