Month: February 2013

Tomorrow is Oscars night. And there’s a possibility that I’ll stay up to watch the ceremonies “live”. Not because I’m a huge cinema fan. I’m not. I used to be. The only reason I’ll stay up is because the cricket is on a little later, and I may consider making a night of it.

It never used to be like this. Growing up in Calcutta, India, during the sixties and seventies, going to the movies meant something.

For one thing, we had real movie halls. None of this modern smelly-shoebox-with-popcorn-cola-floors stuff.

 

In those days the buildings were awesome. You felt you were going somewhere special just by walking in to the cinema lobby. Air conditioning. Bright lights and dazzle. Thick carpet underfoot. “Elegant” music. People dressed up as if they were going out. Because they were. Going out, that is.

[The buildings above may not look much to you: they’re mainly art deco installations seen a decade or more later, in the austere times of the Second World War. But they were still there when I was born, in 1957, and very much part of my childhood and youth. Elite. Metro. New Empire. Globe. Lighthouse. Minerva. Tiger. Those were the Seven Sisters of my upbringing.]

Going to the movies felt special.

The feeling of special-ness continued as you left the lobby and entered the cinema hall proper. There was only one hall, one screen, none of the modern ten-screens-in-a-shoebox-alongside-a-strip-mall nonsense. And it felt gigantic when you walked in. The aisles were wide, with ushers waiting to show you to your seats. There were queues, but space enough to deal with them, and people enough to help you. And there were ice-creams and chocolates and pop corn and soft drinks on sale. There were even programmes on sale for the film you were about to watch. If it was a musical, there were little booklets of lyrics. You felt special.

The “stage” itself had real, heavy curtains, probably the only curtains in the whole city that were operated electrically. At least it looked as if they were operated electrically. For some reason, the projections would start before the curtains were drawn open, so that you would see the folds and the frills undulate with print before disappearing for a while.

The seats were plush and comfortable. And everything was dressed up to the nines.

The lobby had bars. Real bars, with enough people serving behind the bar to let you get a drink with just a few minutes queueing. Or you could sit down at a table and wait to be served. You could even take your drink in to the cinema.

The entertainment wasn’t just about the main event. Of course you had trailers and advertising. But you also had at least one short film beforehand, sometimes two. Sometimes they were cartoons, but not always. And you had intermissions. At least one, sometimes two. Time enough for you to go to the restroom, get an ice-cream or a drink, talk to people about what’s happened so far, and then sit down again. If you were late for some reason, the ushers had torches that they used to help you, shining down discreetly on the floor in front of you. And there was space enough for you to get to your seat without making everyone in the row stand up. All you had to do was stoop to minimise getting in the way of people.

The entertainment tended to be wholesome, often formulaic. Indian censors made sure that what you saw was U if you were under 18 and A if you were old enough. But you didn’t care, you went for the experience, and to be treated like royalty.

And at the end of the film the national anthem played and everybody stood quietly and then went home. Usually chatting excitedly with the people they came with.

What happened to all that? I get told it was TV and VHS and DVD and streaming, but somehow it’s not that simple for me.

Going to the movies used to mean something.

Today, when I go to see a play in the West End, many of the things I associate with seeing a film as a child and young man are present. Of course theatre ticket prices reflect that.

Today, when I go to see the opera, I get all the things I associate with seeing a film as a child. People are dressed up. The queues are orderly. And there’s enough space for everything. Not a shoebox in sight. Of course opera ticket prices reflect that.

There’s at least one cinema venue in London that feels like the good old days, and I love going there when I can.

The rest of the time? I still go to the movies. But it’s not the same.

There are a lot more screens everywhere, mostly empty. Everything is smaller, dirtier, more commoditised. Nothing special.

Nothing special in the UK, nothing special in India, nothing special in the US. Somehow it’s all become about multiplexes and shoeboxes and any-colour-you-like-so-long-as-it’s-black.

You know something? People will pay good money, real money, to feel special.

Going to the movies used to mean something. And I hope it will, again.

Because feeling special is a Good Thing. If the theatre can do it, if opera can do it, so can film.

 

Photo courtesy of Dionna Raedeke

 

The act of sharing involves two or more people. At least two.

Sharing involves participation. Active participation. By two or more people. At least two.

Not two anythings. Two people. Not machines. People.

In the past I’ve written about the role of design in sharing; about why people share, and what people share; if you’re interested in the subject, please just search for “share” on this blog and you’ll see dozens of posts. Today I want to concentrate on another, critical, aspect to sharing.

Speed. And intensity.

Any activity that involves two or more people needs to be based on something tacit, an understanding of the reciprocity implied within the relationship(s). We humans are subtle creatures, and our understanding of reciprocity is nuanced, shaded, complex. So the reciprocity is not necessarily either short-term nor crude. You don’t expect that everyone will buy everyone else a drink when there are “rounds” at a bar, at least not in the same evening. But “over time” you expect a balance. You don’t expect that everything you do for someone else is going to be reciprocated in the same currency by the specific recipient: there’s an altruistic pay-it-forward mentality in many of us. We are not, in the main, manipulative creatures; our expectations of reciprocity are probably better described by a sense, an expectation, of “fairness” rather than a mechanical give-and-take. Compromises are involved, trade-offs do happen, but usually not in any simple short-term bilateral space.

Instead, we have this notion of fairness. Sometimes this extends into something even harder to describe, a sense of what is “reasonable”.

So when two people meet and start to build a relationship, when they begin to share things — time, experiences, views, beliefs, ideas, anecdotes, whatever — there is a need to watch for these human notions. Notions of what is fair. And notions of what is reasonable.

[All this has nothing to do with technology. Not yet anyway.]

Most of us seem to be able to pick up the signals to determine what the appropriate levels of reciprocity are, in the context of fair and reasonable. And then we put that learning into practice as we navigate each relationship. It’s a voyage of discovery, one where the pace and the depth of the conversation is  tacitly negotiated by the parties involved.

And relationships grow and flourish as a result.

These things, natural to us in the world of flesh and blood, are much harder to achieve in digital space. But they matter nevertheless.

In a digital relationship, you do have to care about what you share, how much you share, and how quickly you do it. Sharing is meaningless unless what you share is appreciated by the people you share it with.

Appreciated. Now there’s a good word. Appreciation is about estimation of worth, appraisal. It is also about something increasing in value.

When you share something, think about who you’re sharing with, why you’re sharing. Think also about whether the person or people you’re sharing with will appreciate your action.

Because the value of sharing comes in the appreciation.