The movie was, of course, wonderful as ever, and it was a joy to see it on the big screen. (I even noticed things I'd completely missed on the 323,405 times I've watched it on the small screen.)
The venue, however, was hideous. It was exactly what I expected except even worse. The Light House cinema seemed to have been designed to eliminate any hint of welcome, warmth, cosiness or softness whatsoever. It's all straight lines, sharp edges, hard surfaces and blank spaces. The whole aesthetic seems to proclaim, "Don't go thinking this is a place to have fun in-- no, this is a laboratory for serious cinephiles." I did see people carrying popcorn, but no doubt it was ironic popcorn.
Everybody in the cinema seemed to be in their twenties or thirties, and they were so cool that I probably should have been wearing an extra sweater. There were no children and no old people.
Alcohol was on sale in the cinema café, and could also be carried into the film. The guy beside me was drinking a beer. The smell of liquour is not a very pleasant smell, in most cases, and it certainly isn't what I consider a cinema smell.
In short, the Light House cinema is the negation of everything I love about cinemas, and I shake my head in wonder and dismay that I have so often heard it described as being "lovely" or "beautiful". How can taste be so corrupted?