Where Light Begins

It is time to say goodbye to a very special place: the projection booth at the Arena

Even if all of the preparations are done just right, the organisation brought to perfection, and every detail carefully thought through, even if everything is just as it should be, the might and vulnerability of the festival, which has hypnotised millions of audience members for half a century, comes from the same source – the place where the film first flickers.

When everyone takes their places, and the murmur of the audience quiets down, when everyone looks to the big screen, the anticipation is compressed into the confined, warm, dusty little fort. It is a place where anecdotes, such as family stories (because the Festival is a family), are passed down. It is a place where everything is remembered – the smell of celluloid film, summer heat, squeaky chairs, the silence before the first shot of the film. There is no red carpet to this place, nor are there spotlights, but it is though those small windows that generations of operators and technicians have sent beams of light making stories come alive on the big screen.

One doesn’t think about the projection booth when everything goes to plan. But sometimes the film would go silent, freeze, or even take an audio or video break. In the old days, it was known to project a burnt pork rind onto the end credits. Everything and everyone is blamed: humidity, heat, pressure, voltage, Mercury, Vespasian. Caught in between shots, in that short period of anticipation, the audience (Oh, what audience!) breaks everything with an applause and helps things along.

The projection booth stands proudly and reminds us that cinema is not just film watching, it is an experience. In today’s digital age, when our home fridges are controlled from the Amazon rainforest, it reminds us of what makes us a community – it reminds us that each of the films passes though someone’s hands, is seen by someone’s eyes, and courses though someone’s soul. In today’s world, everything is faster, cleaner, soundless. Perhaps the ominous second of silence before the picture speaks or falls silent is also gone. Perhaps there are no more prayers to the Universe. But memories will never fade, because the heart of the booth, the heart of the Festival, beats in the people who used to be its operators.

The new booth awaits. It will have its charm. But there is one thing it definitely will not have – the soul of the old booth. Because you can’t install a soul. You can only create it.

And so, our dear booth – thank you! You have been more than a room with projectors. No glamour, but plenty of character.

We will remember. You were a miracle. You were chaos.

Ours.