Last weekend I called off sick from work. Alone, I took the T8 train to Wynyard, then the 172X bus over the Harbour Bridge to the Hayden Orpheum Picture Palace, to finally catch a rare screening of Lawrence of Arabia. David Lean’s 1962 epic follows British officer T. E. Lawrence through the Arab Revolt during the First World War, stretched across nearly four hours of desert landscapes and 70mm spectacle. It felt like one of those films I shouldn’t first encounter on my laptop. 

I bought a classic large popcorn and drink combo and took a seat in the middle of the warm-hued room as people filtered in. The ornate, golden ceiling caught the reflections of moviegoers rushing through the aisles below. A duo of 14-year-old boys journeyed up and down the aisles searching for good seats. The large-sized drinks sagged down in their arms. After roaming across the vast, red-carpeted dunes of the cinema room, they eventually settled for the front row. 

The man sitting on my right was dressed for the occasion. A white, 70s style suit. Brown dress shoes. Piss-yellow beer in a plastic cup. As I munched on my popcorn before the film started, he turned to me and excitedly shared that he had seen Lawrence of Arabia with his dad when it first released in 1963. He considers it one of the best movies ever; he’s even held on to the ticket stub for the past sixty-some years. When I told him it was my first viewing and that I had decided to save it for the cinema, he replied “Excellent! Excellent!” He then made a comment—cackling to himself—that Lawrence is one of the only films you’ll find without a single line spoken by a woman. I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic, so I played it off with a nervous laugh. The next moment I heard him turn to the person on the other side of him, a man roughly the same age, and tell him the exact story he told me about seeing it in 1963—almost word for word—except the man replied, “Me too!” Mr. White Suit laughed loudly throughout the screening, rocking my seat each time.

Halfway through the film, his friend leaned over from the row behind with a fresh cup of beer. In a raspy, mock-thirsty voice, as if coming upon a well after days in the desert, he offered it to him: “Driiink.” Mr. White Suit laughed with his teeth and took it. 

During the twenty-minute intermission, I wandered around the cinema looking for a bin, slicing through the crowds on the stairs and catching snippets of conversation as I passed different groups. Two white guys—late twenties—discussed the aspect of Islamophobia in the film while one tied his shoelaces. I caught another guy describing the movie as, 

“They get on a camel, go to some place, talk, then get back on the camel again,” which made me chuckle. 

I returned to my seat. Another older man, bespectacled, was seated on my left. He had been quiet until then, but now leaned in and remarked that it was great to see so many young people (“like yourself”) in attendance. He asked me how I had heard about the film and I said I’d known about it for a long time but wanted to save it for the big-screen experience. Nodding, he told me he had seen it two years ago at the Orpheum when they had last programmed it, but emphasised that at the time the screening was only “70% full” and it was “wonderful” to see it sold-out now. 

Suddenly, a woman—probably in her late fifties—in the row behind us crouched down, forearm resting on the head of my seat. She excitedly told us that she and her son had flown in from New Zealand to catch the screening for his 21st birthday. He had seen the film once before and was apparently “loving it”, though it was her first time. She pointed out how beautiful the old art deco style of the cinema was, and the bespectacled man and myself told her about a few other cinemas across Sydney that are similar. She lamented the fact that they were leaving that same night (“It’s too bad”).

After the film resumed, a man in the back of the room drunkenly exclaimed “Hear, hear!” in response to a character describing Arabs as, “a little people, a silly people, greedy, barbarous, and cruel”. For a moment, the room seemed even quieter than before. His words hung there unanswered.  

Finally, the music swelled one last time and the credits rolled. The scarlet curtains slowly drew in, but no one was ready to move. A 300-person sigh. Mr. White Suit brought his heavy, wrinkled hands together in applause. Then the clapping exploded.

The applause felt as much for the room as it was for the film itself.

Ibrahim Alwahwah is a second-year Media/Arts student, majoring in Screen Production and Creative Writing, and minoring in Philosophy. His interests span fiction, poetry, screenwriting, film theory, and filmmaking. As a lifelong cinephile, Ibrahim tries his best to watch a film a day, to the detriment of his sleep schedule.