After all the talking in the audience dies down, one can begin to make out some whispering voices from behind the screen. Then a couple of footsteps can be heard, something that is dropped on the floor, a door that slams shut. For a while there is silence, then the whispering voices can be heard again, and like this it keeps alternating between silence and the sound of voices. When on the way home I complain how there wasn’t a movie, I’m informed I lack imagination. “It isn’t people, when they are fictitious, who have my interest,” I try to explain, but of course in vain. The one we talk to, when we talk to ourselves, always gets the last word.