I grew up an incredibly anxious child, horribly shy and unable to make many friends beyond my small, established group. I’ve always watched movies but wasn’t overly invested from a young age. Also, I used to vehemently express my distaste for football. This all changed when my father bought us both season tickets for Brighton & Hove Albion when I was 11. I didn’t much like change or large crowds and, initially, was anxious at the idea of going.
And yet, I’ll never forget that game, not just because we conceded a heartbreaking 90th minute equaliser to draw 2 – 2 against Blackpool but because I was immediately, hopelessly hooked. For two hours I experienced a rollercoaster of emotions. While a football match is stressful, it’s also a joyous echo chamber of people that all want the same end result — a win. I was forever changed and 15 years later, at 26, I still have my season ticket.
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My dad and I had a complicated relationship when I was growing up and fought a lot, but this was the turning point. It became a way of expressing emotion without having to say anything. When Brighton score a goal it’s one of the few times I hug him as we both jump up and down like idiots. I find family intimacy challenging and the euphoria of a stadium is always able to dissolve any invisible barriers my mind may build.
Movies are another important part of my life, and deliver a hit which is both different and similar. The importance of cinema was more of a gradual realisation. I fell in love with the form that was less immediate than football, as my tastes and knowledge expanded. I have learnt to appreciate certain techniques and directorial choices so much more now and I feel able to judge films on a wide variety of merits other than pure entertainment. But because every film is different in a more complex way to every football match, this process took more time.
Every film I see at the cinema makes me feel better – even the terrible ones. I used to think the cinema was a collective experience in my youth, and that going alone was almost an admission of loneliness. Now I actively prefer the solitude and not having to worry about whether the person I’m with is enjoying it. In a way you’re never really alone in a cinema anyway, with that strange physical and emotional proximity to strangers who you will never speak to or see again. The sweet spot of a few people dotted around or in special cases an entirely packed cinema gives me hope and joy – a shared experience without words.
I remember seeing Lee Chang-Dong’s Burning, an adaptation of a Haruki Murakami short story alone at the BFI Southbank and feeling mesmerised at the tiny “Studio” screen. While challengingly paced the film drifts like smoke to an inconclusive ending that stirred my soul. I was still adjusting to University and London at the time but there I felt cryogenically frozen in a state of joy. This is the exact same way I feel when Brighton win a match.
