My friend, Ebo, runs a movie house for tucked-away, ‘private viewing’. Its windmill wonders work this way: you breeze gently in, select the same old movie again (but, then, it doesn’t matter because you still don’t know the story, although you’ve seen it three times here) and you evaporate into the next available, sizzling room – just the two of you.
If there are no idle rooms, you languish in the languor lounge long enough for others to study, keep and remember your fidgety face at another time, or you wisely retreat and wait in the car (if there is one). Just make sure there is a heavily-tipped movie attendant to come and get you, once a room is fling-free ;-). A particularly obese tip should ensure that they smuggle you in out of turn.
Ebo tells me that anytime a patron stops going to watch movies, it’s either because SHE got married, or because HE moved out of home, and found his own place! Really revealing reasoning, no? But he left out he or she who simply cannot or must not take their movie partner home, because their life partner lives there :-)
The movie houses don’t bother to keep up with clean or pirated Hollywood. You’re only there for the silver-screen skinny-dipping, anyway. You’re there till you walk down the aisle, or you walk out of home, or the third reason.