A Love Letter to the Solo Movie Date (& Five Film Experiences That Stayed With Me)

The solo movie date isn’t just an act of self-care — it’s a personal ritual, a sacred escape, and a tradition worth embracing.

Goodbye, Dragon Inn (Tsai Ming-liang, 2003)

The situation is familiar: I realize I have a free night to myself coming up, and a knowing, slow grin forms on my face. Grabbing my laptop, I scan the showings at my favorite independent cinemas. Thrilled, I discover a newly restored classic, an imported print of a film that’s been near impossible to find, or an international title that hasn’t received the widest distribution. Without hesitation, I add one ticket to my cart and purchase it (or more, if multiple titles catch my eye). Moments later, a buzz alerts me that my generous gift to myself has arrived in my inbox. Now, all that’s left to do is count down the days — or hours — until I indulge in yet another 10/10 date that only I can give myself.

Few things in life bring me greater joy than the solo movie date. In fact, it’s my preferred way to experience the theater. When I go alone, my focus falls on films that aren’t the Next Big Cinematic Event (my grievances with the growing lack of film etiquette at blockbusters are a discussion for another day). There’s a wonderful tranquility in knowing I’m off to see something strictly for myself — not out of obligation, not to keep up with the latest releases, not to appease a friend who’s eager to check out a title I’m indifferent toward (though broadening one’s tastes is always important, too). A solo movie date is an intimate, sacred pleasure — the chance to lose yourself completely, disappear from reality, and immerse yourself in a new world. Swoon. The mere thought of it makes my heart flutter.

How beautiful it is that this opportunity to vanish exists in such familiar, nostalgic quarters. To enter a small theater and see the plush red seats, to arrive early enough to secure the perfect spot (middle row, middle seat for me), and to grab that buttery popcorn and rest it in your lap, its freshly-popped warmth touching your heart. This, to me, is peace.

Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood (Quentin Tarantino, 2019)

I know that for some, the idea of going to the movies alone still carries a stigma. What if people think I have no friends? Am I the poor, lonely soul whom everyone pities? I know these thoughts well because I was once that person. But why do we feel this way? The cinema is an escape. You don’t go to chat and rehash the week’s events with pals; you go to sit in the dark and lose yourself in a story. Sure, the social aspect comes into play after the credits roll, but during the film, you’re engaged in an act of communal solitude.

Fascinatingly, I’ve discovered that if you end up at a packed theater for a lesser-known title versus something that’s been advertised to death, you’re surrounded by your people. By and large, chatter is kept to a minimum, and you don’t have some oblivious weirdo getting on all fours and crawling through aisles to retrieve the metallic lid from their water bottle (yes, really). Can you imagine if this happened during Vittorio De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves? Sacrilege! As pretentious as it may sound, you’re in a crowd with folks who respect the craft they’re about to witness. Their experience means as much to them as it does to you. There’s something marvelous about that, no?

One of my favorite rituals when a solo movie date comes to an end is staying firmly in my seat as the credits roll. While I scan the names on screen, I also tune in to the murmurs around me. Some audience members are delighted; others are shaking their heads. For me? I absorb it all. Sometimes, the insight of a stranger offers a perspective I hadn’t considered, and I’ll carry it with me as I wander home in silence.

I promise you this: nobody cares that you’re at the theater alone. And if they do? Well, they clearly have their own shit to work through. Getting your butt planted onto that seat is the most daunting part of this new experience. After that, your worries scatter away, replaced by the magic of cinema. And if you need an extra push, try this: go a little early (you want that crème de la crème seat anyway, right?), and settle in before anyone else arrives, free from the self-induced parade of frantically bolting towards whatever first open spot you find.

The solo movie date isn’t just an act of self-care — it’s a liberation.

As a bonus treat… I’m leaving you with five films I saw alone that have stood out in my mind:

The 400 Blows (François Truffaut, 1959)

My first solo movie date, and one I still remember so fondly. I was young when I experienced Truffaut’s feature film debut; likely in my first year at college. At this point, I was oblivious to the societal stigma of going to the cinema by yourself (this was an anxiety I somehow picked up in full-fledged adulthood). I was a French New Wave beginner, eager to expand my horizons — but I wasn’t prepared for the devastation that consumed me. “​​I can’t really say what the theme is — there is none, perhaps — but one central idea was to depict early adolescence as a difficult time of passage and not to fall into the usual nostalgia about ‘the good old days,’ the salad days of youth,” Truffaut shared in his final interview with Bert Cardullo in 1984. And that’s precisely what he portrays. Truffaut showcases this misunderstood period in a child’s life that is so very real, and, my god, is it ever crushing — when nobody wants to listen to you and when every mistake feels like it carries the weight of the world. Perhaps it’s because I was going through a period of my own rebellion, but in this moment, my heart ached extra hard for Antoine (Jean-Pierre Leaud). Of course, seeing that legendary freeze-frame on the beach, blown up on the big screen, too, was a moment I still treasure.

Good Morning (Yasujirō Ozu, 1959)

Hey, another film from 1959! I don’t have much to say here by way of poetic lyricism — this was simply just the warmest and coziest “ticket for one” viewing. While traces of Ozu’s more serious themes linger beneath the surface, he’s incredibly gentle here. Pastel hues within stunning compositions envelop you as you wander through the rhythms of childhood in suburbia. A peaceful lull into the mundane. I loved the joint theater experience of giggling at Ozu’s art of a perfectly-timed fart joke.

Nostalghia (Andrei Tarkovsky, 1983)

Words can’t express how excited I was when I discovered there was a Tarkovsky retrospective going on at The Cinematheque here in Vancouver back in 2023. When I was younger, he was the sort of Boss-Level filmmaker that initially really frustrated me. Since then, I revisited some of his most respected works, and remarkably, something just clicked. As such, I knew I was ready to experience Nostalghia for the first time – and in a theater, no less! I always tell Tarkovsky newbies that if your local cinema is playing one of his movies, seeing it on the big screen, away from distractions, is the way to go. After all, these are films to be wholly absorbed in. With Nostalghia, I was left drowning in longing, loneliness, and an overwhelming sense of, ahem, nostalgia. Listen, I know this might sound a bit woo-woo, but I can’t deny it — Nostalghia led me into a state of cinematic levitation. Melancholia permeated through the screen and practically consumed me. I was hypnotized, only taken out of my trance during that candle scene that stretched forever. Why, you may ask? The collective, exasperated sighs of my fellow movie-goers allowed me to let out a few chuckles. How many people, I wondered, were unprepared for this cinematic test of patience?

Il Grido (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1957)

My most recent solo movie date as of this writing. ​​Few films have ever made me feel this alone in a theater. I’m familiar with Antonioni’s now-legendary themes of alienation, but this earlier effort somehow managed to reach a new depth of despair. Il Grido is a tale of lost souls drifting through limbo, caught in a world where nothing unfolds as desired. Instead of romanticizing the anguish of unrequited love, Antonioni delivers the stark, unembellished reality of heartbreak. It’s a film that thrives on its desolate atmosphere, consuming you in a vast, industrial wasteland. Even wrapped in a cashmere sweater and scarf, I could still feel the cold seeping into my bones. As Aldo (Steve Cochran) climbs back to the factory tower where he once worked and surveys the landscape below, a final, crushing realization sets in: there is no place where he belongs anymore. I strolled home that night, sullen yet impressed by Antonioni's ability to leave such a lasting ache.

Carmen from Kawachi (Seijun Suzuki, 1966)

This showing was special. Also in 2023, The Cinematheque put on a Suzuki retrospective for his centennial. Along with curating six films by the Japanese maverick, the Japan Foundation provided six more titles on 35mm prints that were imported. One of those films was Carmen from Kawachi — and good luck catching this on any sort of streaming service (it currently sits at 117 reviews on Letterboxd). This was the year I deeply got into Suzuki’s catalog, and to cross off yet another hard-to-find film was cause for celebration. Apparently, many others had the same idea, and I loved sitting in a crowd with the same joint mission. The film itself is Suzuki’s very loose take on Georges Bizet’s opera, Carmen — and it even includes a surf rock version of “Habanera” (spoiler alert: it’s electric). The Suzuki fingerprints are all here: melodrama, pulp, comedy, and those stylish surrealist touches I’ve grown to love in his filmography. The film itself may sound like standard B-movie exploitation fare. Our lead, Tsuyuko (Yumiko Nogawa), is a country girl who moves to Osaka and finds herself in a series of harrowing situations, from seedy hostessing gigs to modeling opportunities and so on. Yet, Suzuki never fully goes there. Certain traumas lurk beneath the surface, but Suzuki doesn’t turn this into a flesh-centric flick — that’s not the kind of movie he was making. In fact, he seems to criticize the exploitation genre itself through some wildly inventive cinematic devices. That’s an article for another day — and one I’d gladly write.