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this age, where it seemed as if everybody was making their own sex tapes, he refused to let his standards slip and took pride in showing only work of
the highest order, sourced from the most committed film-makers from around the world. These were people who really cared about what they did, and he often told himself that if the films they made
weren’t art, then nothing was. His 35mm rule had kept him, aesthetically at least, streets ahead of rivals who had lazily resorted to video projectors, but he sometimes wondered whether his
customers noticed this, or cared.
    Inevitably, the cinema had slid into a state of disrepair. What had once had the feel of an exclusive gentlemen’s club was becoming like any other sex flick fleapit: the deep red carpet
was worn down, and paths of grey ran from the box office to the screens; the once plush velvet-textured wallpaper had been rubbed smooth to shoulder height; and the handyman had not been called in
to replace fallen chandelier crystals.
    In dark moments, Monsieur Rousset had thought about pulling down the shutters for the last time, putting the place out of its misery while it still had a shred of dignity left, but then he would
see one of his regulars shuffling in, avoiding eye contact with him and with the rest of the world, and every time his sentimentality got the better of him. He knew that to close would be to tear
the heart out of their lives. What else would they do? Where would they go? He knew he would struggle on, doing his best for them until the lights went out. He also knew, though, that this day
would not be far away.
    One afternoon in April, while he was dwelling a little more than was healthy on this sad state of affairs, he had taken a call in his office. ‘Rousset,’ he had said, rubbing his
temple in anticipation of bad news as he did every time he answered the phone. From the other end came an unfamiliar voice, a woman who spoke perfect French with an unplaceable international
accent. She told him she was the representative of an individual who had taken an interest in his premises.
    Property developers , he thought. He supposed he might as well humour her. He would always have bills to pay, and if he was going to leave the business with anything at all to show for it
he would have to sit down with her kind at some point.
    ‘So,’ he said, ‘what can I do for you?’
    Fifteen minutes later he put down the phone, having made the biggest decision of his working life: the cinema was to close. He had agreed to relinquish the building from early
September until the end of January, during which time he would make enough money to restore the place to its former glory. And what’s more he would be able to raise its profile and completely
relaunch it – to let people know what Le Charmant Cinéma Érotique was: the only place to come for serious, hand-picked, properly projected grumble flicks from around the world.
Out of nowhere had risen a new beginning.
    He usually steered clear of the Internet. For a long time he had considered it an enemy whose sole intent was to bring Le Charmant Cinéma Érotique to its knees, but that day
Monsieur Eric Rousset delightedly swept a pile of papers off his keyboard, opened a search engine and typed in his saviour’s name: Le Machine .
    Monsieur Rousset had the patrons of the major art museums to thank for the uplift in his fortunes. Le Machine’s fame had made its way back to his forsaken home city, and
when he announced his intention of bringing Life to Paris, a scramble had begun as the main players raced to be the one to host the work.
    The scramble was followed by a swift retreat as, one by one, the city’s art-minded philanthropists made discreet phone calls in which they made it quite clear that they could not be seen
to support such an exhibition, and that they would have no choice but to reconsider their relationship with their favoured gallery were it to go ahead. Likewise, the controllers of